Shining White in the Sun
by dysprositos
Summary: The mission should have been a snap. No murderous robots or invading alien horde. But in a moment, what should have been so easy goes sideways, and Natasha is left trying to pick up the pieces and learn how to navigate a world that's lost all meaning. It's a long, hard journey through self-blame, avoidance, and guilt, but there's
1. The End

**Welcome to my fic for the 2015 Natasha Romanoff Big Bang.**

 **First, a couple of thanks. Number one to my beta, skylarkblue, who's relatively new as my beta and yet agreed to take on 25,000 words worth of angst anyway.**

 **Number two, thanks to my artists jnjlen-ou-skinjbir and wardinpanties. I've linked to their art on my profile.**

 **Third, thanks to icyblueroses for letting me borrow their t-shirt design. I've linked to the post I borrowed it from in my profile also.**

 **Please note that this story contains the following elements: mild self-harm, alcohol abuse, major character death. These elements may be upsetting to some readers, so proceed with caution.**

* * *

Natasha Romanoff does not fuck up.

Truth be told, at one point she'd considered putting that on her resume: 'I do not fuck up.'

Granted, in her line of work, there wasn't a lot of need to even _have_ a resume; the fact that she was still alive spoke to her skill, and what else mattered?

Now, she _did_ have a resume, of course; several, really, for several different undercover personas. There was the girl from legal, the waitress, the librarian, the dancer, and her particular favorite, the IT nerd.

Not one of those resumes said 'I don't fuck up.'

Every one of them could have.

Natasha knew she was dependable. She was who you sent in if you wanted a job done exactly to specification. She was who you sent in for the trickiest, hardest, most dangerous work. She never misread her opponents, she never misread a situation, and she considered every angle. She was effective and she knew it.

The Black Widow. One of the best agents in SHIELD. Then an Avenger. Responsible for helping to save the world not once, but twice.

Natasha Romanoff does not fuck up.

 _Except,_ she thought vaguely as Clint's brains exploded out the back of his head, _when I do._

* * *

The mission had been a simple one, at least, as simple as missions tended to be in the days since Ultron.

Working with some intel Tony had gathered on a tip from Rhodey, they were taking out a HYDRA base that was producing chemical weapons. Producing chemical weapons and then selling them to various terrorist organizations. The weapons were pretty similar, explosives laced with a very unpleasant gas that caused burns on contact. Which was bad enough, but the gas couldn't just be washed off with water, it had to be neutralized. And it kept burning as long as it was in contact with skin.

To make their product even more disgusting, a lot of their weapons came disguised as toys or as other shiny, bright colored objects, basically announcing that the intended target was children.

So they had to be stopped.

Obviously.

The coordinates that they had led them to what satellite images showed to be an empty, blank mountaintop in the Himalayas, but upon arrival, it was clear that the mountaintop was definitely neither empty nor blank.

Mostly, this was because their jet had come under fire when they were still five miles away from the location.

"Saves us the trouble of ringing the doorbell," Steve had said. This was far more polite than what Clint, who was trying to land the jet without letting it get blown up, had said.

"You use that language in front of your kids?" Tony had asked, raising an eyebrow at Clint's expletive-laced exclamation.

"No," Clint had growled, setting the jet down in a clearing. "Because they generally aren't trying to fucking _kill me._ "

"Generally," Natasha had echoed, with a grin, thinking about Clint's unruly miniatures.

She loved those kids, loved spending time with them, loved that Clint and Laura had taken her into their family. Family hadn't been one of Natasha's strong suits when she'd met Clint, but he hadn't let that deter him from dragging her home to his house and his wife for Thanksgiving the first year after they'd met. Natasha had spent the long weekend tense, paranoid, still half worried that Clint was going to shoot her if she stepped out of line. Under those circumstances, it would have been understandable if Laura hadn't felt comfortable with Natasha, but no, she'd only ever been welcoming. With time, she had adopted Natasha into a surrogate sister and then, with the arrival of her and Clint's first kid, a surrogate aunt. Aunt Nat. It had a nice ring to it, Natasha thought.

"But really," Natasha had gone on, unbuckling her seat belt and getting up, "It's because his wife would kill him if he talked like that in front of them. And I'd help." She'd stood, snapping her gauntlets into place. "Guess we're on foot then?"

"You flightless losers are," Tony had said. "Come on, Fabio, let's do some reconnaissance, see if we can find the door to this 'super secret lab'." He'd clanged out of the jet's open back hatch and taken off.

And Thor, more or less used to Tony's endless barrage of nicknames, had dutifully flown off after him.

Which was how Natasha had found herself trekking through the Himalayan Mountains with Steve and Clint.

To be honest, this wasn't the strangest situation she'd ever found herself in with those two. There had been the incident at the Nestle factory and the nightmare at Seaworld, and by comparison, this was mundane. Routine, even. They'd been prepared for this possibility, and they'd all donned their winter hiking gear before stepping out of the back of the jet. Everything wasn't going exactly to plan, but it was still close enough that no one had been too worried.

In the middle of nowhere, with no one around, the forest completely silent around them, it had been easy to keep an eye on their surroundings. Tony and Thor regularly radioed in updates on their progress on locating a door as well as information about anything they saw, and since Tony also had infrared tracking enabled, Natasha had figured they were safe; anything alive would light up like a Christmas tree.

So they'd figured.

They'd been wrong.

After three miles of nothing moving around them but the occasional bird or other small woodland creature, Natasha had been surprised when suddenly they were under fire.

That had been where the mission had started going sideways.

"What the hell?" Steve had asked, flipping his shield off his back.

"Language," Natasha and Clint had said at the same time, reaching for their own weapons.

Steve had rolled his eyes, barked out a quick request for backup over the comms, and after that, they didn't have time to talk, as they'd found themselves in the middle of a storm of bullets with no apparent source. It was possible to discern the general direction, but Natasha couldn't see the shooters.

"Stark? Anything?" Clint had asked, firing an arrow at what Natasha assumed was his best guess at a target.

"Nothing on infrared," Tony had ground out, clearly frustrated. "Nothing on anything. We'll be there in a second, hold on."

Their arrival was very timely; by the time Thor and Tony landed, Steve had been clipped in the shoulder and he'd taken a hit to the knee when he'd jumped in front of Natasha, who'd been checking on Clint, who had been grazed across his forearm. Then Natasha had twisted her wrist when she'd oh-so-gracefully tripped over Steve's snowshoes in her haste to make sure he was all right after saving her life.

Fighting an invisible enemy was hard. Doing so in winter hiking gear? Nearly impossible.

Luckily, Thor and Tony had a few tricks up their sleeves that didn't really require a _target_ per se, and between Thor's lighting and Tony's lasers, they were granted a few minutes to regroup.

While Thor had helped the three injured team members get patched up, Tony combed the forest around them, looking for clues about the ambush.

"This could be going better," Clint had observed in his usual wry way as he'd wrapped her wrist in an elastic bandage he'd pulled from the first aid kit.

"Really? I thought this was exactly how we expected this to go," she'd replied. Clint's reply had been to give the elastic bandage an extra tug. To cover her grimace, Natasha had smiled sweetly, then addressed Steve. "Plan?"

Tony answered for him, though, over the comm units. "Thor and I think we saw some kind of door or something about another mile north of here. It's got a couple of sentries, and there's what looks like a landing pad nearby, we think that's the entrance." A second later, he added, "Hey, I have something over here. Waaaay over here."

"What is it?" Steve had asked. There was nothing for several seconds, and so he'd demanded, "Stark!"

"Geez, don't get your star-spangled panties in a twist. Um, okay. The good news is that the people shooting at you? They weren't actually invisible. They're just really well camouflaged, and I'd be willing to bet that this weird material they're wearing blocks them from infrared. They were sniping you off from far enough away that you probably didn't have a chance of seeing them. The bad news is that when I say they're 'really well camouflaged,' I mean they're _really_ well camouflaged."

Natasha had frowned. "What do you mean? What's the problem?"

"I mean, we're gonna be lucky if we can see these assholes before we're right on top of them, even if we know what we're looking for. If there's more patrols, this could get ugly."

Steve had finally gotten a chance to speak up then. "Get back over here and let's talk strategy."

The problem, as Steve outlined it, was threefold. One, three of the five of them were injured, one—him—pretty badly. Two, the forest was being patrolled by foes that were basically invisible and who were probably more used to the climate up here and all that it entailed, like moving around in snow gear. Three, they still weren't one hundred percent sure where the supposed door to this supposed facility was. Sure, they had an idea, but no confirmation.

"It would perhaps be advantageous to attempt this mission at a different time," Thor had posited.

"I was thinking that," Steve had said.

Tony had shrugged, as much as he could in the Iron Man suit. "If that's what you guys want. I'm not the one who got my ass kicked today, I don't think my opinion matters."

But Natasha, pragmatic to a goddamn fault, had had something to say. "We could come back later, sure, but if we do, two out of those three things Steve pointed out are still going to be true. We're still going to be at a disadvantage and we still won't know where the door is."

"She's right," Clint had spoken up. "And if we don't stop these assholes, then they're just going to keep pumping out their disgusting fucking weapons. More kids are gonna die."

"So what are you thinking?" Steve asked, looking between the two of them. "I'm not going to be much use in a fight today."

"Tomorrow, though," Clint had said, shooting Natasha a smirk. "Where can I go to get some of that supersoldier shit, am I right?"

She'd punched his arm. "Shut up, dumbass. What I'm proposing is that I just take a short walk up this mountain and make sure that door is actually a door, that's all. No combat, just recon. Then we can come back when we're better prepared."

Steve had considered. "You can't go alone. What if you're ambushed by one of these invisible patrols on the way there?"

"I'll go," Clint had immediately volunteered. "And either Tony or Thor."

"Why not _both_ Tony and Thor?" Tony had asked.

"Someone needs to take Cap back to the jet," Clint had pointed out. "Unless you want to make the poor old geezer walk there on his busted up leg."

"Good point," Tony had conceded, speaking over Steve's objection to the 'geezer' remark. "Want to flip for it?" he'd asked Thor.

Ridiculously, they had (using a quarter Clint happened to have in his pocket. Why? No one knew), and Tony had ended up losing—or winning, depending on how you looked at it—and getting the honor of taking Steve back. Before he left, he explained as much as he could about what to look for in terms of seeing the hidden shooters. When he thought they had a decent grasp on it, he'd grumbled, "Too bad Banner's off doing god knows what, it'd be useful to have someone on this team with some medical knowledge," before he'd slung Steve over his shoulder like a particularly huge, uncooperative sack of flour.

Then the pair had been gone, Steve's protests fading as they ascended, and Thor had taken back to the skies to guide Clint and Natasha towards what he and Tony had thought was the entrance to the underground compound.

It really was only a short walk, but they took it slowly, being careful to stay undercover as much as they could. They didn't come across any more of the hidden attackers, which was probably good; what Tony had managed to impart in regards to seeing them had been minimal and largely unhelpful. Which wasn't his fault, they were just _that_ well camouflaged.

The trees thinned considerably over that mile, giving way to open, snowy terrain, and once they were only a few hundred yards away from what seemed to be the entrance, Thor had landed and walked with them. He had been as quiet and subtle as a flashing neon sign, but amazingly, the group hadn't run into any patrols. Or anyone.

It had seemed strange, but neither of the other two had thought anything of it and so Natasha had written it off as luck.

That had been a mistake. A careless, stupid mistake.

About a hundred yards from the entrance, when Natasha could _see_ two sentries standing next to what seemed to be a blank, featureless rock wall, all hell broke loose.

Their approach, it seemed, had not been as unobserved as they'd hoped, and the complete lack of adversaries they'd met since the ambush had been by design, not because of ineptitude.

The doors—and yes, it was the entrance—between the sentries had opened and a small army had come pouring forth, armed to the teeth.

 _This time, at least_ , Natasha had thought, _we can see who we're fighting_.

But given how much they were outnumbered, that didn't offer much of an advantage.

Truth be told, it didn't even put them on even footing.

Still, between the three of them, they'd managed to hold the onslaught off. Clint had immediately radioed for Tony to come help them, reacting even faster than Natasha, whose first instinct had been to hit the ground to avoid the barrage of bullets.

But even with Thor's lightning, Clint's flawless aim, and Natasha's nimble shooting, things had been desperate from the start. They're weren't doing anything more than holding their ground, and even that was questionable. They were Avengers, though, and they fought, even when things were the most desperate.

It was what they did.

Which was what Natasha had been telling herself when the doors had opened again, and out had come a second, larger wave of HYDRA soldiers.

"This looks bad," Clint had said, taking his eyes from the fighting around them and glancing towards the impending wave of enemies.

And that moment of inattention, brief and fleeting, had been enough.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff does not fuck up.

 _Except,_ she thought, watching Clint's brains explode out the back of his head, _when I do._

One second Natasha had been glancing up to see what Clint was talking about; the next, her face had been coated with a fine mist of blood as a bullet took the back of Clint's head off.

Natasha registered what she was seeing immediately, shock offering no shelter, not even a feeble one, from reality. Clint's body flew backwards from the impact of the bullet that had struck him dead-center in the middle of the forehead. Fresh blood poured onto the dirty snow. His eyes were glassy, still open, staring up at a cold, gray sky.

He was dead.

Natasha knew this immediately. She knew that, and she knew it was her fault. Her fault for insisting they continue on their mission up this mountain, her fault for not putting two and two together that they were walking into a trap. Her fault for underestimating HYDRA, for underestimating soldiers at this base, even when they'd already fallen prey to them once.

Her best friend was dead.

The man who had saved her life more times than she could count was dead.

The man who had brought her home to his family was dead.

His home.

His.

Family.

What was she going to tell his wife?

 _What am I going to tell his children?_

* * *

Somehow, they got back to the jet. Natasha wasn't clear on the specifics, though it was possible that Thor or Tony had flown her...whoever hadn't had to carry Clint.

His body was lying across a row of seats, wrapped from head to toe in an emergency blanket. She remembered now that Tony had tried to put him on the...on the floor, but one cold glare from her and he'd seen the error of his ways.

The jet was utterly silent. What was there to say? The mission had been a failure. And at what a cost.

So much lost, and nothing gained.

Not one goddamn thing.

Suddenly, and without warning, Natasha retched, throwing up bile and the remnants of breakfast onto her boots and the legs of her suit.

Immediately, Steve rose to her aid. Or at least, he tried, but having been recently shot in the leg, he managed only a half-stand before falling back into his seat.

Thor, who had two functioning legs, rose and came to her side. "Are you well?"

The question was so _ridiculous_ in these circumstances that Natasha could have laughed.

But she was a spy, an assassin, and an undercover agent, and right now, she was going to use all those years of experience and training to keep an iron grip on her emotions. It wasn't that she didn't trust these men, it was that she feared that if she let one crack show, if she let _one_ emotion loose, she'd drown in a bubbling vortex of hysteria, never to be seen or heard from again.

So she answered evenly. "I'm fine. Motion sickness, I guess. I just need to get changed." She stood, stepping towards the back of the jet where there was a little more room to move around.

As she walked by Clint's body, Natasha turned her head the other way, unwilling, at the moment, to consider what was lying there, wrapped in an emergency blanket. Instead, she busied herself with unzipping her jumpsuit and straightening the thermals she was wearing under it. When she tried to take the jumpsuit off, though, it caught on her wrist. More specifically, on the elastic bandage Clint had wrapped around her arm. She'd forgotten about her injury completely, so caught up had she been in the battle and its aftermath.

Natasha ran her fingers over the neat wrapping. She was always amazed at how quickly and deftly Clint could do first aid. He said it was from years in the circus, patching himself up after practicing a new routine or, more likely, just goofing off.

No.

He _had_ said that.

He would not be saying it again.

And just like that, it was like all the air had been sucked from the jet, leaving Natasha unable to find enough of it to breathe.

Or maybe she'd just forgotten how.

Tony's voice drifted back from the cockpit, where he was flying the jet. "'Fine,' right. I'm sure you're fine, Romanoff."

"Now's not the time," Steve snapped.

Natasha felt her legs go weak and she fell forward, landing on her knees and crushing them. She stretched an arm out to catch herself, but it was the one she'd injured, and it buckled. She found herself sprawled on the floor, vision swimming.

This, she supposed, was how the bubbling vortex of hysteria would start.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I had to schedule my conversations," Tony said. "I'm just worried—"

"I am with the captain on this," Thor interrupted. "Please—"

"Autopilot," Tony said. Then, "Oh, see, you guys are acting like I'm being an insensitive asshole, but neither one of you noticed _this_."

Natasha had enough time to notice Tony, standing at the front of the jet and gesturing vaguely at her, before her vision went black.


	2. Grief is for the Innocent

**Please note that this chapter contains self-harm and alcohol abuse.**

* * *

When she awoke, Natasha knew exactly where she was.

Hospital. Probably the one in the tower, since they did their best to avoid public hospitals—too many liabilities. The standard hospital sounds—gentle beeps, mostly—surrounded her, and before she opened her eyes, she knew she was not alone.

She could hear one other person breathing. She stayed still, keeping her own breathing even, and listened.

The other person's breathing was also slow, even. Asleep, then, probably. Natasha turned her head towards the sound and cracked her eyes open.

Steve was asleep in a wheelchair next to her bed. He looked terrible; exhausted, one arm in a probably-unnecessary sling. One-handed, as the other one was splinted, Natasha pulled herself up so that she was sitting, unwilling to disturb Steve's rest by activating the hospital bed. From her new perspective, she could see that one of his legs was wrapped in a cast—also probably unnecessary, given his healing abilities, but the doctors here didn't take risks with their health and often strong-armed them into recovery.

An especially impressive feat, given how treatment resistant all the Avengers were.

Natasha glanced over at the IV stand next to the bed. It looked like she was just getting saline at the moment. That was good. The clock on the heart rate monitor told her it was just after 3 AM. That was also good. There weren't many people around at 3 AM.

Slowly, she pulled the IV needle out of the back of her hand, using the bedsheets to stem the bleeding. Her plan was to sneak up to her rooms and crash there, alone, preferably with a locked door and a bottle of vodka between her and the rest of the world.

Before she could make her grand escape, though, the doors to her room slid open silently and a doctor entered. Her name was Kathy Ericson, and she'd been working in both the hospital and in the biomedical sciences department at least since Natasha had been living at the tower. She'd patched Natasha up before, multiple times now, and Natasha had always appreciated her efficiency.

"Ms. Romanoff, I'm glad you're back with us," she said softly, glancing at Steve. "Captain Rogers has been here most of the night. Thor and Mr. Stark have stopped by several times as well."

Suppressing a flinch, Natasha ignored the name that was missing, the name that would be missing forever, and tried to force her lips into a smile. It ended up being more of a grimace. "What's..." she paused and cleared her throat, which was bone dry. "What's the damage?" she said, keeping her voice down, too.

"Sprained wrist," Dr. Ericson said. "Should take a few weeks to heal, try to avoid any strenuous activity." She grabbed Natasha's chart off the foot of the bed. "You were unconscious when you arrived, but there's no head trauma. We ran a full battery of tests and my best bet is low blood sugar combined with exhaustion and..." and here she paused.

"And...?" Natasha prompted her.

"Panic attack," Dr. Ericson said. "Bad one. We got your blood sugar back up and you've been resting for a few hours." She paused again. "I heard about what happened on your mission. I'm so sorry for your loss."

And that...was not something Natasha was ready to hear yet. Or ever, maybe, but certainly not now, no matter how evenly and practiced Ericson could make it come out.

Despite how gently Ericson had spoken, the words still stabbed Natasha like a knife. Clint was dead, it was because of her. She'd been reckless and careless, and now and there was nothing anyone could do to change it. He was gone. And she was going to have to live with it, and his _family_ was going to have to live with it, and for what?

For a failed mission.

She stood, wrestling herself from the bed, then looked down at her thin paper gown, giving it a dissatisfied tug. "I need my clothes." Her words came out evenly, surprisingly so given the twisted, stuttering state of her mind. She sounded almost rational.

Almost, except for how she didn't bother to keep her voice down.

"Ms. Romanoff, you should stay for a few more hours to make sure you're stable," Dr. Ericson said. "Fainting like you did is not something to be taken lightly."

"I need my clothes, or I swear to god, I'm going to walk out of here naked."

She was yelling, now. But she didn't care. All Natasha cared about was getting out of here, getting somewhere small and safe, finding a place where she could hide for the next ten or twenty years. A place where she could pretend that she hadn't just destroyed the only family she was ever going to have. How could Laura ever look at her again? The kids? For god's sake, one of them was practically _named_ after her, it would be a constant reminder of their father's killer.

Natasha's chest felt tight.

"Hey, calm down, okay? I can go get you something to wear," Steve said, yawning and standing, startling Natasha, who took a deep breath and whipped around to face him.

Dr. Ericson sighed. "Captain, I told you that I don't _care_ how fast you heal, I didn't want you on that leg for at least a week."

Steve shrugged at her. "Sorry." He put his good hand on Natasha shoulder. "It's going to be—"

"Don't you dare say 'okay,'" she hissed, flinching back and nearly knocking the heart rate monitor over.

Steve removed his hand. "I'm sorry. Look. I'll go grab you something to wear, and you let the doctor check you over, okay?"

This was not ideal, but it seemed like the only way she was going to get out of here. Natasha nodded, stiffly, and Steve walked out of the room.

Dr. Ericson sighed, obviously displeased by his blithe disregard of her medical advice. Then she grabbed a penlight out of her pocket. "Follow the light, please, Ms. Romanoff."

That was easy.

Quelling the nausea rolling in her stomach though? That took effort.

Steve was back within half an hour, and Natasha, even as terrible as she felt, had to smirk at what he'd brought her to wear.

"Well, I couldn't get into your rooms," he said, handing her one of his t-shirts. It said, 'I'd flex, but I like this shirt.' "So I just grabbed some of my stuff. Sam gave it to me," he added, nodding at the shirt.

"You've been upgraded from 'dweeb' to 'dork'," Natasha said, trying for her usual wry tone. It came out flat, instead, and Steve wordlessly handed her a pair of sweatpants to go with the shirt.

After he'd respectfully turned his back so she could change, Natasha ditched the hospital gown for Steve's extremely roomy clothing. She reflected that she was glad she only had to wear these for a few minutes, as it was almost necessary to hold the pants up with one hand.

Once she'd changed, she wordlessly turned and walked out of the room.

Steve caught up to her exactly two steps later. "Natasha."

She ignored him. He was the team leader, and she didn't want to think about the team right now, because then she'd have to think about the gaping void in the team, which would lead to the gaping void in her life.

It was easier to ignore him. Then he was just a friend. An annoying one.

"Natasha," he said again, this time grabbing her elbow.

Natasha yanked her arm away. "Aren't you injured or something? Shouldn't you go, I don't know, sit down?"

"Not until I'm sure you're all right," Steve said.

Natasha turned to him, raising her eyebrows. "Are you...blackmailing me into talking to you? With my concern for your health? That's underhanded. I like it." The words sounded like her. The tone was still flat, deflated.

Steve gave a small, forced grin. "I could pretend to limp, if that would sell it more." He sighed, clearly finding the banter too much to maintain. "I know how much Barton meant to you, I just want to make sure you're going to be okay."

"I'm going to be _fine_ ," Natasha ground out. Lying came second nature to her; she was fairly sure at this point she was never going to be fine again. She started walking again, and Steve kept pace. "Really," she said. "I will. I'm just..."

 _Not there yet._

"Okay," Steve said, his tone plainly saying 'I don't believe you.' "What can I do for you? _Aside_ from leaving you alone."

Natasha stopped in front of the elevator that would take her to her floor and pressed the 'up' button. "I really need space right now." She was beginning to feel like she was going to scream, or cry, or maybe both, and she wanted to be alone long before any of that happened. "Clint's not the first partner I've lost," she added, staring straight ahead. "I'll be fine." A truth to temper the lie. He wasn't the first partner she'd lost. She wasn't going to be fine.

He was the first best friend she'd lost. And while his wasn't the first family she'd destroyed, it had been the first one where she _hadn't meant to_.

"Natasha," Steve said.

When she didn't reply, he sighed. "We haven't told his family yet. We wanted you to be there."

Natasha felt, suddenly, like she might throw up.

"We know how close you are to them," Steve went on, "and—"

The elevator opened in front of them. Natasha stepped on hurriedly, pressing the button for her floor, hoping Steve would take the hint and leave her alone.

He didn't, instead following her onto the elevator. "And we thought it would be better, coming from you."

"Better?" Natasha snapped. "You think anything is going to make it okay?"

"Not okay," Steve amended. "Just less...horrible."

Natasha was shaking her head, though. "Nothing's going to make it better, less horrible, whatever you want to call it. Their father is _dead_ , Steve, because of a mission that didn't even _accomplish_ anything. Laura's husband is dead because I decided to keep going up that mountain, because I underestimated what we were getting into, because I—"

"Hey," Steve interrupted her. "It's not your fault—"

She turned to him. "Yeah. It is. And I'm not going to look at them and say, oh, sorry I killed your dad, kids, but it was for the greater good. I can't." She shrugged. "Maybe that makes me a horrible person, but at this point, can you really be surprised by that?" The elevator doors opened, not a second too soon, and Natasha stepped out. "Thanks for the clothes. I'll make sure they get back to you." When Steve made a move as if to follow her, she added, "That was me ending this conversation."

Steve frowned, but when Natasha turned and walked down the hall, he didn't try to follow.

It was something for which she was immensely grateful; her apartment door was barely shut and locked behind her before she had sunk down against it and begun to cry.

* * *

At some point, she made it to her couch. Because that was where she was woken up at 10:30 AM by someone knocking on her door.

Natasha sat up and looked at the door. Her brain, slow and foggy, connected 'knocking sound' with 'someone wants in.'

She decided she wasn't interested in seeing anyone and laid back down. Her throat hurt and her head ached, and she figured she was probably dehydrated.

But moving was too much work.

Whoever was at the door was persistent, because they kept knocking for a solid 10 minutes.

And they came back at 11:30, and 12:30.

At 1:30, Natasha braced for the knocking, having not yet left the couch except to make one shambling trip to the bathroom.

But there was no knocking this time, only badly hushed whispers, and this piqued Natasha's curiosity enough that she stood and slumped over to the door.

"You're sure she's here?" One voice—Tony's—asked.

"Pretty sure," another voice—Steve—answered. "Unless she left through a window or something. I was here all night."

"The windows up here don't open, and there's no other way out," Tony said. Natasha smirked; that's what _he_ thought. But her face immediately fell at Tony's next words. "Did they say anything about the funeral?"

Funeral.

Funeral, because Clint was dead, because her own short sightedness had killed him.

Because he was gone and there was nothing they could do about it.

He was gone, and his family was still here, and she'd ripped them apart.

Irreparably separated.

'Aunt Nat' indeed.

Natasha thought that if she wasn't so dehydrated, she might have started to cry again. As it was, she just closed her eyes and leaned against the door with a sigh, her stomach twisting in knots and her hands shaking.

"Not yet," Steve said. "Laura was pretty...pretty shocked. I'm flying up there tomorrow to see what I can do to help. Was gonna go today, but that doctor won't clear me for travel."

"Well, you did get shot twice. Wanna knock again?"

A sigh. "Yeah."

Even with the warning, Natasha still jumped when the pounding started. Then she looked at the door. Placed her hand on the lock.

And...nothing. Despite her intentions, she didn't open the door, didn't turn the lock and twist the knob. She just stood, and waited.

For what?

It sounded like Steve had taken care of informing Clint's family. It made her stomach drop, the fact that she hadn't been there, hadn't been there to look at them when he told them what she'd done. But navigating the world outside her apartment, a world where Clint had ceased to exist, seemed insurmountable. Even now, even as she knew she _should,_ she couldn't seem to open the door. Couldn't seem to negotiate the barrier between her and the rest of the world.

Here, she was safe. Here, she was alone with her pain, isolated, where she belonged.

Here, she could let it eat at her, consume her from the inside out.

And instead of opening the door, she stepped away. Stepped away from the whispers and the pounding.

She turned and walked into the kitchen, silent in her socks, drifting through her apartment.

She opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle, her focus suddenly singular and crystal clear. She was done grieving. Grief was for the innocent. Grief was for people who _hadn't_ killed their best friend. She was not allowed to grieve, Natasha decided. She could not grieve. No grief, no healing.

She could only forget. She had no right to Clint's memory, not when she had killed him. She had no right to any part of him.

She went back to the couch.

When the knocking came back at 2:30, she was tipsy.

At 3:30, she was drunk. In between shots of vodka, she had ripped all the few pictures she had of Clint off the walls and had put them down the garbage disposal, of all places; it had made sense at the time. She'd taken all the gifts he'd given her and put them in a pile in the middle of the floor. She'd intended to set them on fire, but didn't have anything in the way of fuel.

So instead she sat on the floor, legs crossed, staring at them, thinking of what to do with them instead. His gifts had always something small, sometimes something useful, sometimes useless tchotchkes. Souvenirs from missions. References to their years of inside jokes. A shot glass from Budapest.

That one, at least, was an easy fix. Natasha wobbled to the kitchen, filled it with vodka, knocked the shot back, and then threw the glass against the granite countertop in her kitchen. When she roughly wiped the shards into the sink, they cut her hand, a half dozen nicks that dripped blood on the carpet as she stumbled back to the living room.

By the knocking at 4:30, she was wasted, lying on the floor of her apartment, watching the ceiling spin above her. The cuts on her hand had scabbed over, and she lazily picked at them, reopening the wounds. The pain was dulled by the vodka, but Natasha persisted, digging her fingers into the wounds until they bled freely. It made sense, the pain in her hand mixing with the pain in her chest, and she felt that _this_ was okay, and _this_ was right, even if nothing else was.

Her few moments of reprieve were broken at 5:30.

"Natasha, I can hear you throwing up. Are you okay?"

Natasha wanted very much in that moment to say something witty and clever, the sort of one-liner that everyone expected from her, but lying on her living room floor in a puddle of blood and vomit, it wasn't her shining moment. She elected to continue ignoring Steve. What business did he have, harassing her like this when all she wanted a few hours of peace and quiet to self-flagellate?

But no, he was the 'team leader' and he was going to lead.

Natasha didn't want to be on a team, though, not now, not while she was wounded and hurting. Right now, she wanted to back into a corner and fight anything that came too close.

Steve was getting too close.

There were several seconds of sweet, blessed silence, until:

"If you don't open this door, I'm going to kick it down."

Steve was definitely too close.

Natasha lifted her head. "Fuck off," she snarled towards the door. Then, she settled back onto the ground. The ground was hard and uncomfortable, but at this point in her existence, she didn't figure she deserved anything better.

Several more minutes passed, several silent minutes, sweet, sweet, silence, until, with no warning at all, her apartment door burst open with a bang.

Steve. That asshole. He'd really kicked the door down. "That was unnecessary," Natasha said, her words slurred and mostly muffled by the way her face was pressed into the carpet.

"I told you I was going to do it," Steve said, self-righteous just by virtue of _not_ being passed out drunk on the floor. "Jesus, Nat. Are you okay?"

Natasha felt that the answer was fairly self-evident, so she didn't answer.

The silence stretched on for almost half a minute, and Natasha was _almost_ asleep when she felt Steve grab her by her ankle. He then proceeded to drag her away from the puddle of puke on the carpet.

She kicked her leg, but she was still half-drunk and he had a good grip. Instead, then, she made a sort-of high pitched whining sound, attempting to convey 'you're a jerk' and 'stop doing that' and 'fuck off' all at once.

"You're welcome," Steve said, depositing Natasha on the cold bathroom tile. "Nat, what happened to your hand?"

Natasha wasn't sure where to start with that, so she elected to say nothing. Instead, she shrugged. At least, as much as she could, lying on the floor.

Steve sighed. "Okay. Do you have carpet cleaner?" When she didn't answer, he prompted her, "Nat?"

"Under the kitchen sink," Natasha growled, using her arms as a pillow and clenching her eyes shut against the bright lights in the bathroom. This whole situation was ridiculous.

"Okay," Steve said. "I'm going to make coffee and clean up. Take a shower, you need it, then we're going to talk." He paused. "Nat, you need to talk to someone."

And before Natasha could protest, he was gone, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

 _Asshole_ , she thought, glaring at the back of the door. She didn't need to talk to anyone. She needed to be alone, she needed to be quarantined, she needed to do the decent thing and _forget_.

Why didn't people _get_ that?

Slowly, Natasha sat up, using her good arm to prop herself up. Then she stood to look in the mirror, surveying the damage.

She was still wearing the clothes Steve had brought her in the hospital, but now there was puke down the front of his shirt and blood smeared on the side. Her hair was sticking up, and there was puke in that, too. The smell was noxious.

Did she need a shower? Yes. Was it Steve's job to come in and babysit her? Absolutely not.

And she sure as hell didn't want to talk. Not about this, not about what had happened, not about anything. This was her burden to bear, her pain. She deserved it.

The wounded animal inside of her reared its head, and Natasha knew then that she had to get out of here.

Methodically, Natasha stripped, took the splint off her wrist, and turned on the shower as cold as she could stand it. Cold water wouldn't get her sober any faster, but it would make her more alert. And if she wanted to escape, she needed some modicum of her wits about her. The soap and water stung in the cuts on her hand, and that helped her focus, too.

Once she was clean and back in her bedroom, she made sure Steve was busy in the kitchen, and then she shut the door so she could have some privacy. She got dressed quickly, splinted her wrist, and then gathered a few essential items—her cell phone, wallet, and knife. She put on a pair of sturdy boots and then, with one last look at her closed bedroom door, she stood on her bed and silently popped open the air vent in the ceiling of her room.

Clint, who had loved secret passages and who'd mapped out the whole ventilation system in the tower, had showed her this, had showed her how to get from her room to the parking garage. The memory of them wriggling down the ductwork, giggling at the absurdity the whole time, stabbed her in the chest.

Well. Her pain, her penance. She needed to get somewhere she could be alone with it, somewhere she could quietly rot away until she looked the monster she was.

Somewhere no one would force her to talk, where no one would tell her 'it's okay' and 'it's not your fault.'

It would _not_ be okay, and it _was_ her fault. The lies were nothing more than that, false comfort for someone who deserved nothing of the sort.

Wincing at the pain in her sprained wrist as she pulled herself up, Natasha shimmied into the duct and carefully closed the vent behind her.

She didn't have any definite plans, didn't even know if she'd ever see the tower or the rest of the team again...but she didn't look back once as she sped out of the parking garage and onto the New York City street.


	3. But Home is Nowhere

**This chapter also contains some alcohol abuse.**

* * *

She'd been staying at the motel for nine days when she decided to go to the dive bar across the street.

It had been nine days of staring at her phone, idle and unpowered on the bed next to her. Nine days of staying awake all night, throwing back shots of cheap vodka until she passed out. Nine days where she ate nothing but stale popcorn and the occasional vending machine candy bar. Nine days of agonizing about what she'd _done_ and what she _should do_ and what she was _actually going to do_.

Nine days of pretending that the mission hadn't happened, that the last ten years of her life hadn't happened, that she'd never met Clint Barton or his perfect family, that she'd never let herself know what family even _was._

She had to forget. It was gone, and she didn't deserve the memories, not after what she'd done. And it wasn't like Clint's family was ever going to want to see her again, anyway. This was better for everyone.

And so Natasha hid in her room, in the bottle, in her mind. She hid, and hated herself for hiding, and she hated herself for what she hadn't been able to stop from happening. She drank her cheap liquor and slept and watched all the worst reality television that the networks had to offer and yelled at the motel housekeepers to leave her alone.

She woke up hungover every morning and threw up acid that burned her throat and left her lips raw. Then she would shower, the water on as cold as possible, the icy drops stabbing into her aching muscles. The face she saw in the mirror was a gaunt and pathetic reminder that she was _alive_ , and so on day four, Natasha had broken the mirror, the shards of glass cascading into the sink and onto the floor.

When Natasha stepped on the pieces in her bare feet, she relished the pain, as small as it was.

It was what she deserved.

 _This_ was what she deserved. She had been careless with Clint's life. Now she would be careless with her own.

But on day ten, Natasha decided it was time to come out of her room.

This was mostly because she'd worked her way through most of the supplies she'd picked up, including the alcohol. Sobriety wasn't high on her list of priorities, so Natasha decided that her best bet was the dive bar across the highway. It wasn't likely, she figured, to be the worst place she'd ever had a drink. That dubious honor went to the dusty, abandoned apartment in Budapest where she and Clint had split a bottle of vodka, her nursing a broken ankle and him a dislocated shoulder. And that place hadn't even been so bad, until it had blown up.

The dive bar, while fairly disgusting, even at a distance, did not seem like it was going to blow up any time soon, and so Natasha figured it wouldn't be that bad.

The music was so loud that it was audible from the door to her motel room, terrible country stuff that seemed endemic to all the dive bars in America. Still, even that wasn't enough to deter her, given her aversion to dealing with her own thoughts, given her desire to _forget, you need to forget_ so she crossed the street and pushed the door open, stepping into the dark, dank entryway.

The only real sources of light in the bar were the televisions mounted above the bar and a few 60 watt bulbs over the tables, but even in the dimness, it was easy enough for Natasha to see that every single occupant of the bar turned to look at her when she entered.

Most of the looks were not friendly.

But Natasha had never been the type that was easily intimidated, so she approached the bar and sat down on one of the stools.

"What're you drinkin', babe?" the bartender asked loudly, staring pointedly down Natasha's shirt with a leer.

 _Really? That's how this is going to be?_

"Vodka," Natasha answered, eyes narrowing. "Straight."

The bartender stepped away to get her drink, and while he was doing that, the man sitting at the bar next to her leaned over and grabbed her arm.

"You sure that's what you want, honey? I could get you something a little...sweeter," he slurred at her, his breath thick and heavy in her face.

Natasha figured that was probably the stupidest pickup line she'd ever heard. Also, his breath was terrible enough that she thought she might throw up. She found herself suddenly itching for a fight. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to drink the vodka," she said, smiling sweetly. "I'm going to use it to sterilize my arm."

"Watch it, bitch," Drunk Asshole slurred. "You ain't from around here, are you?" His grip on her arm tightened.

Natasha wondered how he knew. "What gave it away? My grammar? Or my hygiene?" It wasn't like her to be so reckless, that had always been Clint, and—

She froze. _Is he_ always _going to be there?_

But then...

Maybe, if she did something stupid, something reckless, she could forget. Maybe, for a few blessed moments, she could _actually_ forget him.

Natasha's reverie was interrupted when the man yanked on her arm, using her to pull himself up so he towered over her. "Listen, sweetie, am I gonna have to teach you a lesson about respect? 'Cause I'm just tryin' to be nice, and that ain't how a woman oughtta act."

Natasha ripped her arm out of his grip and stood up, too, now spurred into action. The man was a solid foot taller than her and probably more than a hundred pounds heavier. She weighed her options, sized the situation up.

Then she said, "Oh, I'd _really_ like to see you try to teach me anything, big boy."

Before Drunk Asshole could even move, Natasha threw the first punch, right to his stupid, annoying jaw.

The guy was solid, Natasha had to give him that. Even drunk, her punch didn't knock him down; he just staggered back a few steps, knocking into the table behind them and spilling its contents onto the floor.

"Watch it!" the man sitting at the table barked. "Some of us are tryin' to have a good time here, you asshole!"

Drunk Asshole straightened with a snarl and, ignoring the guy who'd been talking to him completely, lunged for Natasha.

She easily sidestepped him, having the benefits of training, size, and sobriety. Then she casually kicked out her leg and swept Drunk Asshole's feel from under him.

He fell to the ground heavily, the wind knocked out of him.

This was disappointingly easy.

Natasha stepped over him and went back to her stool, where the bartender was standing, gaping open-mouthed, with her drink in his hand. "Can I have that?" she asked. Wordlessly, he set it down and Natasha picked it up and knocked it back in one shot. It was terrible, bottom shelf stuff, not worth savoring, and anyway, she wasn't interested in savoring, just not thinking.

When she set her glass down, she looked around and saw that everyone in the bar was looking at her with expressions that mirrored the bartender's. Except Drunk Asshole, who was still trying to get up. Natasha sighed. Evidently, this was _not_ the place to go to escape her feelings. With another sigh, she grabbed her wallet out of her pocket, threw a five on the table, and left.

Back in her motel room, and annoyingly sober, Natasha lied down on her bed and looked at her phone, its black, empty screen reflecting the light from the lamp on the bedside table. She picked it up, her thumb hovering over the power button.

She had disappeared off the map, had spent almost ten full days subsisting on carbs and alcohol. She felt miserable, tired, and pained. She had isolated herself with her pain, tried to do her penance. She had beaten her body down, stifled her grief until it ached in every muscle, every joint.

It hadn't brought Clint back.

She had tried to forget. She had consumed enough alcohol to kill a lesser human. She had started a fight with a man twice her size to try to block out the thoughts that were ripping her apart.

She couldn't forget.

Nothing could bring him back, because he was dead. Because of her.

She couldn't fix that.

But maybe there _was_ something she could do.

Maybe it was time to face the music. She couldn't forget. No matter what she did, she _remembered_. She was always finding new things to remember, new things to forget. Natasha couldn't forget, so maybe it was time to try something new. Some new kind of penance.

Clint was dead, it was her fault. She had thought that she should forget Clint, forget his family because she didn't deserve to have a family anymore. But maybe...maybe she was being selfish. If Laura and the kids blamed her for what had happened, what if they wanted to hate her and scream at her and turn their backs? Shouldn't she let them do that to her face? Didn't _they_ deserve closure, in whatever small way she could give it to them? Didn't they deserve that, after what she'd done? She _was_ being selfish, Natasha realized, and maybe it was time to get it together.

There was one thing she could do: offer some kind of resolution to the family she'd ruined.

Natasha placed her finger on the power button, willing herself to press it.

But then...she set her phone down again.

She needed to face what she'd done, yeah. But tonight? Tonight, she wasn't ready.

Not yet.

But in the morning, she might be.

* * *

At 8:07 AM, Natasha checked out of the motel.

Sitting in her car, she took her phone out of her jacket pocket and looked at it.

Then, she pressed the power button, grimacing as it burst into life, all bright, happy music and flashing lights.

When it had booted up and connected to the network, Natasha saw that she had 21 voicemails, 53 text messages, and 4 emails.

Sighing, Natasha opened the messaging app. The most recent message was from Steve, and it had arrived earlier that morning.

It said, "Laura is worried about you."

The previous message, from six days earlier, was also from Steve.

All it said was, 'his funeral is at 11.'

If she'd had anything to eat that morning, Natasha would have thrown it up right then. As it was, she swallowed several times, trying to calm her suddenly-pounding heart, trying to force the rushing in her ears to quiet. Funeral. The word started up at her, a bright, harsh reminder that the real world hadn't stopped when she'd collapsed in on herself. That Clint hadn't ceased to exist when she'd tried to forget him.

He hadn't. He'd had a life, a good one. He'd died. And now he was gone.

Clint's funeral was _over._

And she _hadn't been there._

It seemed foolish, now, that she'd thought she was ready to face reality. That she could ever _be_ ready. Ten days she'd spent trying to shut her brain down and patch the hole in her chest, and it was still there. It still felt like she was drowning.

But Natasha had decided that she was not allowed to grieve. She was not allowed to bleed, to drown. She could only forget.

Forget, and try to make amends with Clint's family.

That was _all._

And even though she felt like she wasn't ready for this, it didn't matter, because whether she was ready or not, time was passing.

Time was passing, and they had already put Clint in the ground.

Natasha stared down at her phone, held loosely in her numb fingers. The funeral had been at 9. She hadn't been there.

What had she been doing that day, that morning? At 9 AM, she'd been passed out, drunk.

Like every morning.

She had killed him and then couldn't even have the decency to make it to his funeral? Couldn't even manage to be there, to say a few words about her best friend? She'd gone to funerals for other SHIELD agents, relative strangers, but couldn't do the same for Clint?

No. She had been drunk.

Natasha shook her head, disgusted with herself. Her actions the last few days felt, somehow, even more selfish than they had last night. Not only was she denying Laura and the kids closure, she hadn't even been able to manage this _one_ thing for her best friend.

Some friend she was.

It seemed unfair, somehow, that she—selfish, terrible—had come out of that op alive while Clint, well.

Hadn't.

 _But maybe_ , Natasha thought, finally setting her phone down on the seat next to her and throwing the car into gear, _I should have known this was coming._

The past has a way of catching up to you, after all. Karma. What goes around comes around. And Natasha had dealt out enough indiscriminate death in her life that it was probably long past time for it to come back to her tenfold.

And...it had.

Maybe the reason she was alive and Clint was dead was that she was the one who deserved to feel like her chest had been ripped open. The one who deserved to know that not only had she gotten a good man killed, she'd left his wife a widow and his kids without a father.

She sighed. Divine punishment or not, it was her burden to bear. Hers, and not his.

With another sigh, Natasha reached up and punched a familiar address into the car's GPS.

At least the drive would be long enough that maybe, by the time she got there, she'd know what to say for herself.

* * *

As it turned out...she didn't.

Four states and almost a thousand miles was not enough time for Natasha to think of a single thing to say to Laura, to the kids, to the rest of the team to explain her disappearing act.

She drove for a day and a half, and at the end of those days, she found herself parked at the end of the long, winding driveway that led up to Clint's farmhouse.

Her actions, Natasha felt, were inexcusable. There was nothing she could say to excuse what she'd done; Clint's death, her response. She had nothing to say about any of it. But an explanation...she thought she owed Laura that, at least. Yet no matter how many times Natasha tried to plan what to say, she found herself at a loss, grasping for words that wouldn't come.

After sitting at the end of the driveway for over an hour, she finally sighed and turned the car back on.

Natasha pulled up in front of Clint's farmhouse a few minutes before 6 PM local time, and she'd barely turned the car off before the front door opened and the older kids came running out onto the porch to see who was there.

Carefully schooling her face, Natasha unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. Then, with one last deep breath, she stepped out and stood.

She had faced death with less trepidation than what she felt now, her stomach in nervous knots, breaths coming in fast and shallow.

When she turned around and faced the front of the house and the kids got a good look at who it was, they immediately came bounding down the stairs, yelling "Nat! Aunt Nat!"

And then, before Natasha could really move or react, she found herself tackled to the ground, underneath 2 kids.

She froze.

The kids clung to her for several seconds before they realized something was wrong. Normally, Natasha was thrilled to see them, would hug them and launch immediately into tag or some other game, but right now she couldn't even force herself to breathe, to speak, to do anything other than lie in frozen surprise.

"Aunt Nat?" Lila asked, confused, sitting back.

"Are you okay?" Cooper followed up, mimicking his sister's movement.

She was saved from answering them by Steve, who popped his head out of the front door. "I hope you two aren't being too hard on Natasha, she's probably still banged up from...from the mission."

The kids backed up immediately. "We're sorry!" Lila said, clearly distraught about the possibility of having hurt her, or maybe about the reminder of the mission that had claimed her father's life.

It took Natasha a moment to figure out what Steve meant by 'banged up.' Her wrist. The sprained one that she hadn't even bothered splinting after the first day. The one that she'd mostly forced to the back of her mind.

Oh well, it had gotten the kids off of her and given her enough room to breathe again. She sat up and inhaled slowly, then forced her lips into what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "It's okay. I'm fine, really."

Then she ran out of things to say. Because, barring apologizing for killing their father, what _could_ she say to these kids?

Once again, Steve saved the day. Addressing the kids, he said, "Your mom wants you guys to help her set the table, okay? Natasha and I will be right in."

With appropriate amounts of groaning, Cooper and Lila stood up and disappeared back inside, leaving Natasha sitting stiff and awkward where they'd left her.

Steve descended the stairs and walked over. "Hey, you made it." He offered her a hand up.

He didn't even have the decency to sound _angry_. Like the kids. They hadn't been angry, either, they'd just been _themselves_. No anger, no disappointment, no recriminations. Nothing.

The nerve.

Natasha frowned, staring at Steve's outstretched hand.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, when it became apparent that Natasha had no intention of moving. "The kids didn't hurt you when they tackled you, did they?"

Natasha felt suddenly like she might cry, so undeserving was she of his concern. She'd killed her best friend, mutilated his family, and skipped his funeral. And yet no one seemed to be holding any of it against her. Like they should.

"No. It's fine." She stood, using her bad hand to push herself up, pointedly making sure she put all her weight on it. Her wrist twinged, unhappy even after almost two weeks, and she breathed a sigh, relieved. Pain she could handle. Concern where it wasn't deserved? Not so much.

"Tony and I have a bet going," Steve said easily, putting his hands in his jeans pockets. "I think you escaped your apartment through the ductwork, Tony thinks you scaled down the building somehow. Who's right?"

Natasha dusted herself off, mostly as an excuse to buy herself a few more seconds of not making eye contact. "Ductwork. Clint..."

'Showed me how to get out,' was what she'd meant to say. But his name caught in her throat, and Natasha realized that it was the first time she'd said it aloud in the days since his death.

Granted, she hadn't spoken aloud much in the last twelve days.

"Yeah, he did tend to use them as his own private secret passages," Steve said. It sounded like he was smiling, but Natasha still couldn't quite get up the guts to look up to see.

Instead, she nodded stiffly. "He did."

There were several seconds of silence, and then Steve spoke again, more softly. "Nat...no one's angry that you weren't here. No one blames you. You did what you needed to do."

At that, she whipped her head up to glare at him. "What _I_ needed to do. Exactly. But what right did I have to do that? What right do I have, when I _ruined_ this family?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Nat. What happened wasn't your—"

"Don't say it," she interrupted. "Don't you _dare._ "

Steve ignored her. "It wasn't your fault, and no one, especially Clint's family, thinks it was."

"They should," Natasha said, looking down again. "They really should."

"If you think they hate you, then why are you here?" Steve asked. His tone was neutral. Not accusatory, just curious.

Natasha sighed, shoving her own hands into her pockets. "I had to be sure. I wanted to give them the opportunity to say it to my face. Give them closure. It's the only thing I _can_ do."

Steve nodded. "And then?"

She shrugged. "I hadn't thought that far ahead." Then, Natasha had to chuckle. "And I usually plan every contingency. Just hadn't thought about this one."

"Look," Steve said, reaching out a hand and placing it on her shoulder. Natasha had to resist the urge to shrug it off, the comfort inherent in the gesture making her stomach twist. "Come in. Have dinner. Laura will be happy to see that you're okay. She's been worried, you know. The kids too. They just lost their father, Nat, don't make them lose you, too."

His words felt like a kick straight to the solar plexus, and her mouth went dry. "I...didn't think about it like that."

Steve gave a small smile. "Yeah, well, your head hasn't been the clearest. Have dinner, at least. You look terrible."

Natasha punched his shoulder. "Jerk." And even though the banter was familiar, it still felt hollow. "Dinner, fine."

Steve's smile widened by a fraction. "Good. We're having chicken, and Tony helped cook."

"Oh god," Natasha said. "You should have said that _before_ I agreed." The joke felt forced, even to her, and she sighed before she started walking towards the house. Steve fell into step behind her.

At the front door, though, she paused. Through the screen she could hear the babble of conversation, punctuated occasionally by a shriek of childish laughter. It was familiar, and homey, and Natasha's chest hurt.

"Honestly," she said, not turning to face Steve. "How's she taking it?"

"Hard," Steve answered, putting a hand on Natasha's shoulder and giving it a brief squeeze. "But Laura's a strong woman, Nat. She knew that this was always a possibility. Doesn't make it easier, but she'll get through it."

Natasha nodded, then placed one hand on the door handle. She pulled the screen door open and stepped inside, heading towards the voices in the kitchen.


	4. Grief is for Innocent Reprise

**Chapter 4: Grief is for the Innocent, Reprise**

Inside the house, the smell of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes hit Natasha full force and she realized exactly how hungry she was. Upon reflection, she realized that It had been days since her last decent meal...in fact, it had been almost two weeks. She'd had breakfast the morning of the mission, and then...after, she'd subsisted on alcohol and gas station snacks, and lots of coffee.

It was no wonder she felt so miserable, no wonder Steve had commented on her appearance.

She'd had just enough time to realize that before Laura popped her head out of the kitchen.

"Nat," was all she said. She stepped out of the kitchen and stood, arms crossed across her chest, frowning.

Steve had said that Laura and the kids didn't blame her for Clint's death, but this welcome was so uncharacteristically cold that Natasha felt her stomach drop.

"I'm glad you're here," Laura said, voice flat. She took a moment to look Natasha up and down and then said, "You look terrible. Come have some dinner, and I'll make sure the kids go easy on you."

"They already tackled her," Steve said.

"Tattletale," Natasha muttered, meeting Laura's eyes for the first time.

Laura didn't smile. "At least someone's trying to keep them in line. Tony just encourages them and Thor isn't much better." Then, she paused, giving something resembling a smile. "It's been nice of everyone to stick around, though. The distraction..." she shook her head as if to clear it. "Dinner's just about ready, come in and sit down."

She turned to go back into the kitchen, but before she made it more than a step, Natasha surprised herself by speaking. "Laura...I—"

Laura turned around and Natasha stopped, unsure what she'd wanted to say. She decided to go for the obvious. "I'm so sorry."

For a second, Laura didn't answer. When she did, she spoke to Steve. "Could you get the chicken out of the oven and then head upstairs to make sure Tony hasn't built Nathaniel his own Iron Man suit in the last ten minutes?"

Acknowledging the request for the dismissal it was, Steve smiled encouragingly at Natasha before disappearing down the hall into the kitchen.

Alone now, Laura tilted her head towards the front porch. "Come on, let's sit down for a minute." She didn't sound angry, just tired and sad, and somehow, that hit Natasha harder. Anger she would have understood. But this...this was foreign.

The two women stepped outside and Laura sat down on the swing on the front porch. It was an ugly piece of work, one of Clint's many weekend projects, but it was well constructed and well used. Laura patted the seat next to her, and Natasha sat down, using her toes to slowly rock the swing.

"When Steve called to tell me what..." Laura paused, and Natasha saw there were already tears forming in her eyes. Still, she collected herself and kept going. "What had happened, I _was_ angry." She looked up at Natasha, making clear eye contact. "But not with you. Not with any of you, or even _him_. He said 'til death do us part,' and he held up his end, so how could I be angry?" She shook her head. "I was angry at _them_. At HYDRA, at the soldiers at that base. As far as I'm concerned they're...they're the only people I can blame for Clint's death, Natasha."

Natasha opened her mouth, but Laura wasn't done. "When Steve called me back the next day to tell me they were flying out here, he told me what you'd said, about how...how you thought it was your fault. And then he told me that you had vanished." Her gaze turned steely. "Then I was angry. At you. I was _so worried_ Natasha! I'd just lost Clint and I didn't want to lose you, too! I didn't know where you were, or if you were okay, or if you were doing something...stupid." She reached out and grabbed Natasha's hand, the one with the scabbed-over cuts. "I've been worried sick. It's been almost two weeks since anyone's heard from you. You could have been dead, and I—" she broke off and wiped her eyes roughly.

Natasha was at a total loss for words. That hadn't been what she'd been expecting. It hadn't occurred to her during her 'retreat' that anyone would worry about her, or indeed, that anyone should have. Especially Laura, who would have been well within her rights to wish Natasha dead.

Apparently, the opposite was true. So Natasha went back to her standby. "I'm sorry." Then, because it felt inadequate, she added, "I thought...it's my fault he's dead—"

"Don't say that," Laura interjected.

"—and I thought you'd hate me. I thought you'd want nothing to do with me. After what I did to your family, what I did to you..."

"The only thing you did to me was make me worry, Nat. How could I be angry with you? You saved Clint's life how many times? I know you would have done anything to protect him. What happened..." here she paused to wipe her eyes again, "It was terrible, but...and I want you to listen closely...it wasn't your fault."

Natasha was surprised to find her own eyes filling with tears. Those words had been following her around since the mission, but they had always felt hollow. But now, hearing it from Laura, hearing it from the one person who could actually offer absolution, it was almost like a weight had lifted off her chest. The guilt that had dragged her along, that had whispered to her about 'her penance' and 'her burden' snapped and fell off of her, dead at her feet.

And under the guilt, under her days of trying to hide and kill her feelings, it was still there, the gaping hole in her chest. Still there, still bleeding, still raw and painful. It hadn't left. It hadn't healed. Natasha hadn't let it. She had covered it and left it to fester, but now, for the first time, she _felt_ it, actually felt it, felt the loss without the shadow of guilt, her first pure moment of grief.

"I miss him," was all Natasha choked out, wiping at her eyes with her fist.

With that, it was out, the words she hadn't said even to herself in the week since Clint's death. The words she hadn't been able to say, because she hadn't thought she _deserved_ to miss him. Grief was for the innocent, but now Natasha was absolved. She didn't have to kill her feelings, or hide from them, or pretend like Clint had been just another partner. He'd been more, so much more.

And she _did_ miss him. More than anything. More than she thought she possibly could.

"Me, too," Laura said, pulling a tissue out of seemingly nowhere and handing it to Natasha. Then she leaned over and pulled Natasha into a hug. "I'm so glad you're here, now." She paused. "You really do look terrible, though."

Natasha disentangled herself from the embrace and rubbed at her raw cheeks with the offered tissue. "It's been...a rough few days." Then, "I got into a bar fight."

Laura burst into laughter, tears still running down her face. "I would have loved to see that."

"Don't tell Steve," Natasha said conspiratorially. "He probably wouldn't approve."

* * *

Dinner that first night was a quiet affair. Despite the exuberant greeting the kids had given her, it was still evident to Natasha that they were grieving. They had never been quiet, well behaved kids—with Clint for a father, how could they have been? But now, in his absence, their mischief was toned down significantly.

Laura, too, was grieving, though trying to hide it. To Natasha, an expert in reading people, it was plain as day nonetheless. She looked tired, and though she smiled at the jokes and banter at dinner, when she felt no one was looking, she became pensive and withdrawn.

Natasha's soul was still bleeding, sure, but so were Clint's family's''. And Natasha, still stinging from the dressing down Laura had given her, decided to take it upon herself to help them heal. After what she'd put Laura through, it was what she needed to do.

Maybe, just maybe, Natasha thought, it would help her heal, too.

For the next few days, Natasha threw herself into family life. She helped 'the boys,' as Laura referred to Steve, Tony, and Thor, with work around the house, finishing the half-done home improvement projects that Clint had left behind. It was nothing major, and the physical work helped Natasha clear her mind. Seeing the projects completed gave Laura closure, a visual metaphor for ending that chapter of her life and looking forward.

It was, she confided to Natasha one evening over glasses of wine, almost overwhelming in the symbolism.

When Natasha wasn't working, she was with the kids, whether it was board games and exploring outside with the two oldest, or lying down for a nap with baby Nathaniel. Having Natasha there seemed to help the kids, providing stability where they needed it the most, an anchor to the past and to their father. It grounded her, too, and being around Clint's family made her remember him constantly. At first she tried to hide when she became overwhelmed by her grief, but one day, Lila sat down next to her, almost on her lap, and said, "It's okay if you miss daddy, Aunt Natasha. I do, too."

After that, it started to hurt less, or maybe it only seemed that way because Natasha wasn't trying to hold the pain in anymore.

At night, after the kids had gone to bed, the adults would sit around the fire, sipping beer and talking. About the past, mostly, about Clint, and then...one day, about the future.

"Don't think I'm trying to push you guys out the door," Laura said, leaning back in her chair. "I really do appreciate all you've done. But how long are you planning on staying?"

It had been a week since Natasha had arrived and thus almost three since the others had come ahead of her. It was, she supposed, a fair question.

Steve answered, "As long as you need us here."

Tony smirked. "Until you stop giving us beer."

Natasha reached over and smacked him, and Laura laughed. "Really. I'm not trying to get rid of you. It just seems like you guys should have more important things to do."

"There is nothing more important than supporting our fallen comrade," Thor said.

Tony shrugged. "Cheesy, but yeah, he's right."

Laura pressed her lips together and frowned. Looking into the fire, she said, "There _is_ something more important, though."

Immediately, everyone went quiet, and after a pause, Laura went on, "Steve, you told me about the mission. You said that when Clint was killed, you guys aborted it." She stopped, then looked up at each of them in turn. "Maybe it's too much to ask. I know it would be dangerous. But. From what Clint said before he...before he left, you were trying to stop someone pretty evil. It would...it would mean a lot to me if you could finish the mission."

Natasha glanced at Steve on her left. He looked pensive, considering. She said, "Laura's right. I think...the closure...it's something we all need." Then, to Laura, she said, "It's not too much to ask at all. It's what he would have wanted."

"It's dangerous, though," Steve mused. Then, apparently sensing Natasha's imminent objection, he clarified, "I'm not saying 'no.' I'm with you 100 percent. It's what Clint would have wanted. It's something we should do. But it's going to take planning."

"We can do planning," Tony said. "This time there won't be any surprises."

Natasha bit her lip, already thinking. Tony wasn't exactly right. _Someone_ was going to be surprised.

It just wasn't going to be them.

* * *

The next morning, they began getting ready to head back to New York. They finished up the last of the painting they had to do, Tony took one last look at the tractor, and Natasha and Laura took a very difficult trip.

"I want to see where he's buried," Natasha had said to Laura as they washed the dishes from lunch. "I have to. After I...I missed the funeral..." Seeing the grave was, Natasha had thought, something she needed to do before she could truly move on. It was the only way she could see to make this real, to make it right. To make up for her weakness.

Laura had turned off the faucet and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. "I've told you, I'm not upset that you missed his funeral, Nat, and he wouldn't be either. I don't want you to push yourself if you're not ready. You can come back after the mission, and I'll take you then."

 _But what if I_ can't _come back after the mission_ , Natasha had thought suddenly. For the first time in her life, she realized she was worried about the 'what ifs,' the possibility that she might _not_ come back. "Laura, I want to go today," she'd said instead, her voice tight and insistent in her own ears. "Not after the mission."

Laura had given a sad smile and picked up her glass of iced tea, taking a sip. "In case you don't come back."

Natasha had winced, but didn't deny it. The worry, she'd realized, wasn't about her safety; she'd faced death and torture and knew she could come out on top. She wasn't afraid of death. She was worried...about leaving Clint's family behind, after everything they'd lost. The fear had been nibbling at her since their discussion last night and this morning. That it had reared its head so suddenly wasn't a surprise, just an unfortunate bit of timing.

"I always knew it was a risk," Laura had said. "I knew what he did, at least, I knew enough generalities to know that he was always in danger. But he always came home. He said he would always come home, but I knew he might not." She'd paused. "I know what you're doing is dangerous, Nat. And I know you might not come back. I've accepted it, even if we've never talked about it."

"But after everything," Natasha had said. "I don't want to hurt you guys anymore."

Laura had nodded. "We might get hurt, you're right. But not by you, Natasha. You're a part of this family, we know you'd never leave us on purpose."

Natasha had closed her eyes, unwilling to show the emotion that had suddenly welled up in her chest. She'd forced out, "Thank you, Laura."

After a moment, she'd felt Laura take her hand and then she was wrapped in an embrace. "It's going to be okay, Natasha."

And for the first time since the mission, Natasha had felt like maybe, someday, it might be.

After a moment, the pair had separated, and Natasha had opened her eyes. She'd met Laura's concerned gaze and given a tired half smile. "You think so?"

Laura had nodded, resolute. "Eventually." Then, "I'll get Nate ready; can the boys watch the older kids for an hour or so without burning the house down, do you think?"

Natasha's smile had turned mischievous. "I don't know if I'd trust them that much, no."

With a laugh, Laura had said, "They can save the world, but no babysitting, gotcha."

Forty-five minutes later—because it was never an easy feat getting a toddler ready to go anywhere—Laura was buckling Nathaniel into his carseat and Natasha was buckling herself into the front seat. "The cemetery is about half an hour west of here," Laura said, sliding into the driver's seat. "It's not that far, but it's on a dirt road, so we have to take it kind of slow."

Natasha nodded, a stiff jerk of her head, trying to quell the feeling of dread rising up in her. This was something she had to do before she could really move on, but this was also what was going to make it _real_.

After this, there was no going back.

...Not that there ever had been, not really. No, she hadn't been trying to go _back_. She'd been trying to find a way to move forward that didn't also involve healing. That didn't involve grief.

Fat lot of good that had done. Natasha snorted, shaking her head.

"Something funny?" Laura asked, turning the car around and heading down the lengthy driveway.

Natasha sighed. "Not funny. Just laughing at myself. I've been such a _moron_. I'm sorry I was so selfish."

With a brief sideways glance, Laura said, "I don't think you were being selfish. Or a moron." She shrugged with one shoulder, using the other arm to turn the car left down the deserted road. "I don't know a lot about your past, Nat, but it seems like 'healthy grieving' isn't something that was ever a part of it."

Natasha snorted again. "Well, you're not wrong." She looked out the window, at the passing cornfields under the almost unnaturally bright blue sky. "The last time I lost someone I cared about...actually, I don't know if I ever have."

"Most of us get practice with loss," Laura said, slowing as she approached a narrow dirt road. She turned the car right. "We lose people we care about through our whole lives. It never gets easier, but we learn what to expect."

"What _do_ you expect?" Natasha asked.

"It hurts," Laura said simply. "I expect it to hurt. And then one day, it'll hurt less. Maybe the next day it'll hurt more. Maybe sometimes you get punched in the stomach by how much it hurts. And maybe sometimes you go minutes, hours, even days without it hurting at all." She chuckled, wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. "Obviously not there yet."

The rest of the ride was silent, each woman lost in her own thoughts. And soon, too soon, they were pulling up the driveway and through the simple gate of a small cemetery.

The place was sunny and bright, green grass and dandelions swaying in the slight breeze. The grave markers were simple, and many of the graves had fresh flowers. The cemetery was clearly lovingly maintained, warm and inviting, nothing austere or cold about it at all.

Laura pulled the car off to the side of the road and then put it in park. Even from the car, Natasha could see what she suspected was Clint's grave, the dirt still fresh. She clenched her fists in her lap, biting her lip.

But then there was a hand on her hand, and Natasha looked up, surprised.

"Come on, Nat," Laura said simply. "You can do this."

Then she unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car. She pulled Nathaniel out of his carseat and slung him on her hip and stood next to the car, waiting.

Natasha sighed, forcing her hands to relax. Then she, too, got out of the car.

The one hundred foot walk to Clint's grave was both the longest and shortest journey that Natasha had ever made. Each step was a struggle, but it seemed like it took only a second for her to get there.

And then she was standing at the foot of the fresh-turned earth.

The headstone was brand new granite, shining almost white in the sun, the quartz in it sparkling brightly. The lines carved into the rock were sharp and unworn by wind or water, and they spelled out a simple message.

'Clinton Francis Barton,' read the first line. 'January 7, 1971 - July 21, 2016' said the second.

'Father. Husband. Avenger.' said the third.

And at the base of the headstone was a small collection of trinkets. A butterfly hair clip and that almost certainly belonged to Lila. A baseball, probably Cooper's. There were others, too; Natasha recognized an arrowhead from the first prototype Tony had designed for Clint, there was baseball cap emblazoned with the New York Mets logo...and at the very center, there was a finely wrought rose, made of purple glass.

"He always brought me purple roses," Laura said, looking down, adjusting her grip on Nathaniel, who continued to doze in the summer heat. "He said they symbolized love at first sight, the dork, but I think he just liked the color." She smiled sadly. "They certainly grew on me."

"I don't have anything for him," Natasha choked out, looking at the headstone, and the small physical reminders of Clint's life, of his connections to the world. She ducked her head and closed her eyes, willing back the tears that wanted to fall.

"It's okay," Laura said. A second later, Natasha felt a hand on her back. "You can cry if you want to, it's okay."

Natasha shook her head, but when she opened her mouth, she had to choke back a sob.

This was _it_. This was all that was left of the man who had saved her life, probably saved her soul, if such a thing were even possible. Her best friend. He'd brought her out of the darkest time in her life and he'd helped give her the chance to be a hero instead of a villain. And then he'd given her a family, shown her what it meant to be a part of something _close_ and _loving_.

And now he was dead. There was nothing left of him but a body in a box and a shining white grave marker.

Natasha clenched her eyes shut, but there were tears on her cheeks anyway.

Then she was enveloped in an awkward one-armed embrace with a toddler squished into her side.

"I miss him, too," Laura said. "Every day. But it _will_ get better."

Then she stepped away, and Natasha opened her eyes.

Laura was offering her a tissue.

"Where do you even keep those," Natasha asked, half-laughing, half-sobbing. She took the offered tissue and wiped her face roughly.

"I have a toddler," Laura answered, pulling out a second tissue for herself. "They're a necessity of life."

And then there was silence. Together, the pair stood, and a breeze drifted around them, drying the tears on Natasha's face into faint tracks. The grass at their feet rustled, the dandelions nearby swayed, and overhead, white clouds drifted by casting intermittent shadows.

It was the most at peace Natasha had felt in days.

Perhaps...ever.

"He's gone," Laura said, breaking the silence. "Clint is gone. But Natasha, I want you to know that you're always going to be a part of this family."

Natasha looked up. "Laura...I...you can't mean that. I killed—"

"You didn't," Laura interrupted. "Don't ever say that. Don't think it." She paused, then went on, "Clint trusted you more than anyone. You were the only person he told about us. He brought you home with him. Natasha, he wanted you here. And so do I. You're my sister."

Natasha—who had at one point accepted that she would never have a family, who had reluctantly let herself be absorbed into Clint's, who had grown to love them, and who had then thought she destroyed them—smiled, fresh tears in her eyes.

God, when had she become so _sentimental._

"Let me carry the Nate back to the car," she said.

Laura handed her Nathaniel. "Gladly." Then, "Nat, please don't ever make me worry like that again."

Natasha adjusted Nathaniel on her hip. "I'm sorry." The pain of loss had been so new to her, the guilt had been like a knife in her chest, and she'd felt so alone. Like Laura had said, healthy grieving wasn't something she knew. She'd been hit by the pain of losing someone, and she'd crumbled like a building that wasn't designed to withstand an earthquake.

But she could rebuild herself.

And now she knew she wasn't alone. Her best friend was gone, but she wasn't alone.

She still had a family.

And she still had a team.

She had her closure. She'd taken the last step. It was time to move on.

It was time to finish the mission.


	5. Survival

The ride back to the farm was quiet. Natasha felt drained, the storm that had been raging in her mind quieted by the peace of Clint's final resting place, soothed by the realization that Clint's family was going to survive this, that _she_ was going to survive it with them.

It still hurt, of course, but now Natasha knew that was par for the course. It would hurt, Laura had said. Sometimes it would hurt a lot. It was normal. It was okay.

When they got back to the house and Laura had extracted Nathaniel from his car seat, Natasha's first order of business was to find Steve.

She found him, Tony, Thor, and the kids in the barn, playing some strange version of tag that involved Steve carrying one of the kids on his shoulders while they tried to touch the others. It seemed like they had succeeded in not burning the house down, after all. Probably by virtue of staying out of it.

When Steve saw Natasha, he gently removed Lila from his shoulders and set her down. To her and Cooper, he said, "Looks like your mom's home, why don't you two go say hi to her?"

The pair, surprisingly obediently, obliged, running towards the house in a storm of giggles and yells.

Leaving the adults standing in an awkward half-circle.

Steve broke the silence. "You okay, Nat?"

She nodded. "Yeah." Then, she shrugged. "At least. I think I'm going to be." Then, more brusque, "I think we need to get down to business."

It was one thing to grieve with Laura, who knew her pain. It was something else to let herself be vulnerable with the team. Maybe that would happen someday. Maybe.

Not today.

Today was about the mission.

"I think we're about ready to head back to New York," Tony said. "We finished everything Barton started. I've made sure, uh, Laura's gonna be taken care of." At their surprised looks, he shrugged. "When SHIELD collapsed, so did Barton's pension. It's the least I could do."

"That is generous, Stark," Thor said. "A kind gesture."

Tony shrugged again. "Yeah. Whatever. Don't go spreading it around. Can't have people think I'm nice or anything."

Natasha shook her head. "No, we couldn't have that. Don't worry, your secret's safe. Just like how we can't tell people exactly _how much_ money you've donated to the ASPCA this year." She paused, then asked more quietly, "Nothing extravagant, right?"

"Nah," Tony replied easily. "She'll be comfortable, that's all."

Natasha nodded. "Okay. Good."

"So we're good to go?" Steve asked. He turned to Natasha. "You're ready to go? Laura is?"

Natasha nodded. "I think so. I'm ready. I think she'll be okay." She smirked. "We've enjoyed her hospitality long enough. Time to get back to work."

"All right," Steve said. "Let's say our goodbyes and then pack it in."

"...Stupid question, probably," Natasha said, having come to a realization. "But how did you guys get here? Where's the jet?"

"Cloaked," Tony said. "Our old jet took damage in...in the mission, so I rolled out the new model. And the cloaking is a little something I picked up from SHIELD. Or what's left of it." He smirked. "Some of those younger kids Coulson's got working for him are pretty bright."

Natasha felt her stomach drop at the name. "Coulson. Has anyone told him yet?"

"He's been off the radar," Tony said. "We've been looking. Same with Banner, to be honest. But if someone doesn't want to be found, it makes it harder to, you know, find them." He shrugged one shoulder. "Not impossible, though. We'll contact them."

With a sigh, Natasha said, "Okay. I want to be there this time. When you tell them." She paused, then added, "It's the least I can do." Even though she knew Laura wasn't angry that she hadn't been there to tell her about Clint's death, that she had missed Clint's funeral, Natasha still felt like she had to do _something_ to make up for it. If not to Laura, then just to strike some kind of balance with the rest of the cosmos.

Steve shot her a concerned look, and Natasha managed to avoid rolling her eyes. "Yes, before you ask, I'm fine. Now let's get it together and get out of here."

Together, the four of them made their way back to the farmhouse. When they told Laura that they were ready to head back to New York, she smiled and thanked them for all the help around the house and for all the memories they'd shared about Clint. Then she gave each of them a hug, which they all accepted with varying levels of awkwardness. The kids were understandably sad that the group of superheroes was leaving, but they promised to come back soon, and that was enough to turn the tears into smiles.

As the others headed out the door, Laura set Nathaniel down and grabbed Natasha's arm to pull her aside into another hug. "Remember," she said. "You're a part of this family. Always."

Natasha returned the embrace. "Thank you," she said, trying to hide the crack in her voice. And then, "I'm so sorry this happened."

"Me too," Laura said, releasing Natasha. "Good luck on the mission, and I'll see you after."

She sounded certain, and Natasha admired her faith, even after her loss. "Absolutely," Natasha replied, quelling her own doubts, ignoring her fears. If Laura could be strong, then so could she.

A few minutes later, Natasha found herself boarding the jet that had rather suddenly appeared in the middle of a nearby field. Tony was at the controls, fiddling with various gadgets on the dashboard, and Natasha unceremoniously plopped down into the copilot's seat. "Ready?"

"If Captain America gives us the go ahead," Tony said, turning around and giving Steve a cheeky grin. "Oh captain, my captain?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Get us back to the tower, idiot."

Tony turned back around and threw a headset on. "You wound me, Cap. Okay, everyone buckled up? Good."

Without further warning, he took off, straight up, jarring everyone on board.

And in that moment, Natasha missed Clint's flying prowess, his talent at piloting the Quinjets. He'd been a great pilot, hadn't jerks the jet around like Tony was apt to do.

But instead of feeling like a punch in the gut, the sudden feeling of loss, the grief...it was more like a slow, drifting descent, almost indistinguishable from the jet's flight.

Natasha sighed and settled back in her chair.

Someday, Laura had said, it might not hurt at all.

It wasn't today.

* * *

Back at the tower, Natasha was apprehensive about going into her rooms, given the state she'd left them in two weeks ago, uncertain if she'd ever even return.

But she should have known better; one of Steve's many talents was mother-henning, and when Natasha pushed open the door to her apartment, she was surprised to see that everything was sparkling clean and organized.

There was no sign of blood or vomit on the carpet, no glass in the sink. The pile of random doodads and knickknacks that Natasha had stacked in the middle of the room to burn once upon a time was gone, and when Natasha looked around the room, she saw that they'd all been put away, had all found their way back to their spots on the shelves.

She sighed. Steve's eidetic memory was a blessing and curse, she supposed, but right now she was thankful for his efforts. It was nice to come _home_ , not to walk into a disaster.

Natasha threw her bags—mostly stuff she'd acquired via Laura, since she hadn't packed much when she'd left—onto her bed and then, after a moment of consideration, she threw herself onto her bed, too.

It was strange to her to be here, in a way. Everything in the tower reminded her of Clint, from the elevator in the parking garage where he'd once—and only once—punched Tony square in the face, to her bedspread that she'd picked out when they'd gone on a late night shopping spree after a bad mission in their SHIELD days.

He was everywhere and...nowhere. Gone. From the tower, from the team, from life.

And from her apartment. She'd destroyed all the pictures she had of him.

Except...

Natasha sat up, looking around her bedroom. The pictures weren't gone. They were right where they'd always been, the walls of the room decorated with the simple, tasteful frames she preferred.

Wait. No. They weren't the _same_ pictures. They were new ones in the old frames, the frames she'd left in a pile on her bedroom floor.

And then, Natasha smiled. Steve's attention to detail was extraordinary.

She had exactly 23 seconds to reflect on that, to stand up and take in the new pictures—pictures of Clint flying the jet, grinning, pictures of them goofing off in the lounge, pictures from the ill-fated surprise birthday party Clint had planned for her a few years ago. Twenty-three seconds, and then there was a knock on the door.

It was Steve. "Hey," he said. He'd already changed into jeans and a t-shirt that had a design like a spray-painted version of his shield on it. When he saw Natasha looking at it, he said, "Sam got it for me."

"He gets you a lot of clothes," Natasha said. Then she looked down. "Um, sorry about your shirt. The one you lent me."

"It was tragically beyond saving," Steve said, clearly not upset at all. "Which is why Sam got me this one." He sighed, clearly pained. "I can't just _not wear_ it, that's rude. But it's so awful."

"I don't know," Natasha said, deadpan. "Looks good on you. Very patriotic."

Steve sighed again. " _Anyway_ , I came to tell you that we're having a planning session in fifteen minutes, down in Tony's lab." More seriously, he said, "We want to get this done and get it done right."

Natasha nodded. "Okay. Good. I'll be down in a few."

"Okay," Steve said. "See you there." He started to walk away, but Natasha stopped him.

"Hey. Thanks for everything you did in there," she said, nodding back towards her apartment. "I appreciate it."

He shrugged, awkward. "It's not a big deal. I just thought it would be easier if you came home to something familiar. We did it before we left for the farm, it wasn't much between three people."

"Still," Natasha said. "It means a lot to me." Then, "You could have just texted to let me know there was a meeting."

At that, Steve rubbed the back of his head with one hand. "I, uh, just wanted to check in on you. Make sure you're all right."

Natasha smiled. "I've been here for maybe fifteen minutes, Steve." Then she looked down. "I'm fine." She paused. "I will be, anyway. I think. Thanks."

Steve put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Natasha, not usually a fan of physical touch, found the gesture comforting. She looked up. "Better get ready for that meeting, hey? Ten minutes now."

"Like Tony ever starts anything on time," Steve grumbled. Still, he let his hand drop to his side. "See you in a few."

And with that, he was gone.

Natasha returned to her bedroom and threw on the first clean clothes she could find. Ten minutes didn't leave her time for a shower, but she brushed her hair and did her best to freshen up.

Then she was in the elevator down to Tony's lab.

But two floors down, the doors opened, and Natasha found herself face to face with...Bruce.

"What are you doing here?" had fallen out of her mouth before she'd even really registered what was happening.

He gave a small smile and stepped into the elevator, which continued going down. His hair was longer than when she'd last seen him, and he'd developed quite the tan. Seemed he'd been somewhere equatorial, then.

How nice for him.

"I, uh, well." He stopped. He tried again. "I was in Sucre. Bolivia. And, uh." Bruce ducked his head. "I'm sorry about how I left."

Natasha felt that was probably something that merited apologizing for. She had her own apology to make. Stiffly, she said, "And I'm sorry I shoved you into a massive hole in the ground."

Apologizing was the least she could do. Especially given how much she wanted to punch Bruce for leaving, for abandoning the team.

Bruce nodded. "I get it. I mean. You needed the Other Guy."

But he still looked troubled, his brow furrowed, so Natasha asked again, this time with more force, "Why are you here?"

"Because I asked him to come," Tony said as the elevator doors slid open, revealing his lab. "Isn't that right, Bruciekins? I mean, I've been asking for three weeks, through all the possible communication channels you might ever use, so it's nice of you to show up now. Would have been nice if you hadn't left at all, but hey, whatever."

Tony's tone was irritated, acerbic. And honestly, Natasha got it. She did. She was as angry as anyone about how Bruce had left the team. She got off the elevator and stepped to the side, scanning the area. It looked like it was just the three of them for right now.

"It was better that way," Bruce said, stepping out of the elevator. The doors shut behind him. "I thought—"

"You thought you were dangerous," Natasha said shortly. "We get it." She looked between Bruce and Tony. "Can we do this later?" There were more pressing things to discuss.

Tony and Bruce glared at each other, but amazingly, it was Tony who relented. "Absolutely." Then, "Should we wait for Steve and Thor?"

"For what?" Bruce asked. Then, slowly, "Why am I here, Tony?"

Natasha and Tony shared a long look. Tony raised an eyebrow, clearly asking _Are you okay with this_. Natasha gave a miniscule nod. She wasn't okay, she knew this was going to hurt—thinking about Clint poked at aches and wounds that were still barely healed.

So talking about how he died?

It felt impossible. Natasha wondered how Tony, Thor, and Steve had managed it the day after it had happened.

"Guys?" Bruce asked.

"We should probably sit," Natasha said. Her voice was small. Even to her, nothing like she usually sounded.

Bruce immediately looked alarmed but let Tony and Natasha lead him over to a nearby sitting area.

When they were all reasonably comfortable, Natasha looked at Bruce, at his wrinkled shirt and his too-short pants. He had, she supposed, done what he thought was right when he'd left the team. Could she be angry with him? Could she stay angry with him? When she, too, had run from her problems? When she hadn't been able to face herself? Was she that hypocritical?

She sighed. She had no room for anger. No room for hypocrisy. No room for anything in her heart right now except grief, and so she shifted her gaze so she was looking Bruce right in the eye. "Bruce. About two weeks ago, we were on a mission in the Himalayas. Trying to weed out a HYDRA op that was manufacturing chemical weapons aimed at children. We flew in, but we had to put the jet down when we came under fire. We couldn't find the source of the attack, the base was concealed. Clint put the jet down, and Tony and Thor went to do aerial recon. Clint, Steve, and I went forward on foot to find the base, and we were ambushed by enemies using a new camouflage technique. We had no idea they were there. Thor and Tony got to us in time, but Steve was injured. He...he thought we should abort the mission..." she paused and took a breath.

"You good?" Tony asked. "Want me to take over?"

Natasha shook her head. She had Bruce's rapt attention, and the color had started to drain from his face, she saw.

He knew where this was going. He was just waiting for her to say it.

And she could say it. It had happened, and avoiding it didn't make that less real. Natasha took another breath. "Steve and Thor thought it would be better to abort the mission, but I thought I could go ahead, sneak up the mountain and at least try to get a look at the entrance of the compound. Make sure we were in the right place, so when we came back we knew where to go. Clint...he volunteered to come with me. Tony took Steve back to the jet and Thor came up the mountain with us to lead the way, since he and Tony thought they'd spotted the entrance during recon. After the ambush, we expected trouble, but there was none. It was _so easy_. No one attacked us. No one bothered us. But then we found the entrance. Two guards. I thought they were so incompetent. God, I was so stupid."

She paused again, pushing against the anxiety rising in her chest. "It was a trap. There were no obstacles and it lulled us into a false sense of security and we _weren't ready_." Natasha shook her head. "I should have _known_. I should have _sensed_ something was wrong, but I didn't. I never screw up, but I _did_ , Bruce." The words tumbled forth, urgent. She had to say this.

"Hey," Tony interrupted. "It's not your fault—"

"We were attacked," Natasha said, speaking over him. "We were outnumbered at least ten to one. Maybe twenty to one. It was hopeless, but we've survived hopeless. That's what we _do_. We're Avengers, we can survive anything. I thought we would survive this."

Bruce looked sick, his jaw tense. He clearly knew what was coming, his hands tight fists in his lap. But he didn't speak, didn't interrupt, just waited for Natasha to finish.

Natasha looked down, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. "But the Avengers didn't survive. I survived. Steve survived. Thor survived. Tony survived." She inhaled through her nose, barely aware of the tears that had started running down her cheeks. "Clint...Clint was shot in the head, Bruce." She looked up, forcing herself to say the words. "He's dead."

Bruce let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. His hands relaxed. He took several slow, measured breaths. He leaned forward and put his head between his knees, as if he were trying to ward off nausea. Then he sat up and opened his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," was all he said, his voice barely a whisper.

And what else was there to say? Natasha exhaled loudly, trying to relax the muscles in her chest. It was over. She had done it. She had done the right thing. She hadn't hidden from this, she hadn't run. She'd faced it head on, and now.

Now she could say she was in control of her grief. It wasn't controlling her, driving her to destroy herself. She had gained the upper hand.

It still hurt. It hurt so much that Natasha thought she could throw up right now, all across Bruce's well-worn sandals and Tony's expensive tile flooring.

But she knew, now, that it wouldn't always feel like this. Laura had told her that. It wouldn't always feel this bad. Sometimes it might feel worse. But sometimes...sometimes it would feel better.

And that was enough to see Natasha through.

While the three of them were still sitting quiet and frozen, Steve and Thor came into the lab. The pair walked over to the couches and took in the state of the three people there.

"I believe that Natasha and Stark have told Banner of the fate of our fallen comrade," Thor said. He laid a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Are you well, friend?"

"Fine," Bruce managed, his voice quiet. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here."

Steve nodded. "You did what you thought you had to. But you're here now. And you should know that we're planning on finishing the mission. The one we aborted when Clint was...was killed."

Bruce looked up at him, surprised. "Really?"

"Least we could do," Tony said easily, his tone a direct contrast to his furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. "Take those bastards out for what they did." He paused. "You in or what?"

Bruce looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. He rubbed his palms on his knees, then nodded, not looking up. "Yeah. I'm in. What are we doing?"

"That's what we're here to figure out," Steve said. "Tony, let's get started. Pull up the updated maps of the base."

The five of them stood, and Natasha felt, then, the gap in the team, the missing link, the hole that nothing would fill.

But they had to go on. They were incomplete, but they had to adapt and do what they could to survive.

Nothing would ever repair the damage, but with time, maybe they would be okay. Maybe the Avengers had survived after all.

Time would tell. Right now, though, it was time to plan.


	6. It's Personal

The plan, as so many of their plans were, was simple. This time, they weren't aiming for subtle. They were going in, guns blazing, no holds barred.

Things were made easier by having Bruce on board. His usual reluctance about having the Other Guy called up was nowhere to be found. When Tony suggested literally dropping him on top of the compound, his only response was a quiet, "Sounds good."

The others just kind of shrugged and went with it.

"Prisoners?" Natasha asked, looking at Steve. Most of the details had been hammered out, but this was something they hadn't addressed yet.

Steve looked thoughtful. "I'm tempted to say 'no.' But that's not who we are."

"I think they kinda blew that chance last time we popped in," Tony said, leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the circular table in front of him. "Not to be an asshole or anything, but I'm not really feeling it. I don't want to waste my time picking out the less-guilty from the more-guilty. They're all guilty in my book."

Thor nodded. "Stark is right. Perhaps before we may have shown mercy, but they certainly have shown us none. I am not inclined to be generous in these circumstances."

Steve tapped his fingers on the table, a brief cadence. Then, "Okay. No prisoners. But remember that our first priority is destroying their capacity to produce chemical weapons. That should be everyone's focus. Anything else is secondary." He paused. "But...don't worry if you take those bastards out."

Everyone nodded. Natasha let herself give a small smile. Of course she intended to make sure the mission was completed. But she was ready to take the whole place down singlehandedly, if she had to. The fact the rest of the team was going to be there, well, it was good to know that they had her back. That they were all on the same page.

That base was going to be taken off the map.

Closure was the goal. Finishing the mission, destroying the base. Natasha wanted this _over_ , wanted it behind her. And the only way to do that was to make sure that nothing remained of the base that led to so much pain and misery.

Steve stood up and looked around the table. "Then I think we're all set. We leave at 5 AM. Does anyone have any questions?"

There were none, and so everyone else stood and dispersed. Tony kept Bruce behind, dragging him by the elbow towards the back of the lab. Steve and Thor headed towards the elevator.

And then Natasha was alone.

Usually, after a mission briefing, she and Clint would have headed up to weapons storage to get all their gear in order. That, Natasha decided, was exactly what she should do now.

It felt weird, traversing the halls alone. Certainly, she'd gone to weapons storage alone before, but never before a mission. It was strange, not reminding Clint to make sure he got the explosive arrows in the right slots in his quiver after the _small_ mistake at Seaworld. And Clint wasn't reminding her to make sure she charged the Widow's Bite after the incident in Mozambique.

Even though Natasha felt the tug of grief, thinking about her chats with Clint made her smile, and Natasha made a note to make sure she charged the Widow's Bite.

He was still looking out for her, in a way.

Natasha took longer in weapons storage than usual. After the last mission, she hadn't come down here to make sure her gear got taken care of. Someone—Tony, probably—had dumped her bags in her storage cage, but that's as far as they'd come. And so her guns were dirty, her knives were dull...and still covered in blood.

The sight was a harsh reminder of that day, of the fight that had taken Clint's life. But Natasha shook her head roughly and pushed those thoughts aside. Instead, she focused on cleaning her weapons and getting them back in working order. Her suit, she found, was something of a loss; leaving the damp, bloody leather/synthetic hybrid in a bag for three weeks had done it no favors.

Well, that was no matter. She had more. But Natasha paused before shoving the garment down the garbage chute to the incinerator. It occurred to her that most of the blood on the suit was probably Clint's. It was the last of him she had left, the last part of him that wasn't in a grave in a peaceful country cemetery.

And then Natasha shook her head and pushed the suit into down the chute. Clint was gone. A bloody piece of cloth wasn't going to fix it. Nothing would.

When she was done in weapons storage, Natasha realized she was famished. She hadn't eaten since lunch with Laura and the kids, and it was well after 9 PM now. Thinking it would probably be best to have a good dinner tonight and a good breakfast tomorrow, Natasha headed towards the elevator to go in search of food.

As she rode up to her apartment, Natasha felt her pocket vibrate. She pulled out her phone to check the message, and for a brief, stuttering half second, she expected it to be from Clint.

Then she remembered, her stomach clenched, and she looked at her phone.

The message was from Steve, and it said: 'Dinner? :-)'

Natasha smiled at the emoticon. Steve always insisted on putting the noses in. She texted back, 'Sure, when?'

Then, for good measure, she added, ' :) '

A second later, the reply came. 'Now, team lounge :-)'

Ah, so this was to be a team endeavor. That was okay. Good, even, maybe. It would give them a chance to feel each other out before the mission. Sure, four of them had been together at Laura's farm, but now they were back in the tower. It was time to be a team, not a group of friends. And with Bruce there, they needed to get comfortable with him.

And they had to get comfortable with the empty space where Clint had once been.

Natasha sighed. She knew they were doing the right thing. It was what Clint would have wanted—he wouldn't have wanted the team to dissolve in his absence, and he would have wanted them to finish the mission. It was just hard. Clint's absence was like the pain of a missing tooth; you would keep poking at it with your tongue, the feeling foreign in your mouth. Eventually, you might get used to it, but things wouldn't be the same.

By the time Natasha arrived at the team lounge, she'd schooled her face carefully. She stepped off the elevator and made her way to the circle of couches where everyone had flopped unceremoniously. There was pizza and beer spread out on the coffee table, and Natasha grabbed a plate and a couple of slices before she sat down next to Bruce.

Dinner was quiet, almost subdued. Part of it was probably pre-mission jitters, but most of it was probably the collective realization that this was the team now. The survivors, as much as they could be called that.

Everyone, it seemed, felt the somber mood, and therefore no one was surprised when just after 10 PM, Tony said, "Think I'm going to call it an early night. Pepper probably wants to fuss over me before the mission tomorrow." He shrugged. "No big deal."

After that, the others slowly dispersed, and by 11, Natasha was in bed.

Sleep came surprisingly easily, whether due to or exhaustion or the comfort of knowing that soon, she would be able to close this chapter of her life. The mission was the unfinished business, the last remaining piece anchoring her to the past.

Tomorrow, it would be over.

And Natasha intended to make it mean something. She'd never let something as personal as revenge guide her. But this had been personal from the moment that bullet had taken the life of her best friend. So while the mission might not be about revenge, not really—it was about _completion_ , and _closure—_ there was bound to be an element of the personal in every punch she threw, in every bullet she fired.

Yes, sleep came very easily that night.

* * *

Morning dawned bright and early, as 3:45 AM is wont to do.

Well, actually it was dark. Dark and early. But it was midsummer, and the days were long, and Natasha could see dawn creeping up over the horizon when she looked out the windows of her bedroom.

She showered quickly and threw on clean thermals. It was summer in the Himalayas, but at the higher elevations it tended to snow year round. That was fine. Snow wasn't going to be an issue this time. They were going to leave their jet right over the compound. No hiking.

In her kitchen, she ate a quick breakfast, making sure she loaded up on the protein. It was going to be a long day. The jet travelled just over mach 3, so the base was about a four hour flight from New York. She'd be able to snack on the way, but breakfast was going to be her major source of energy.

After breakfast, she headed down to weapons storage to gear up.

Along the way, she ran into Steve, who was also heading down to get his gear together. He was wide awake and far more chipper than anyone had a right to be at 4:30 AM.

"Morning!" He greeted her, smiling.

Natasha smiled back at him. "Morning. Aren't you just a ray of sunshine today."

Steve shrugged. "Hey, it's a beautiful day to be a superhero." They reached the elevator and he pressed the 'down' button. As they waited, he said, more somberly, "You okay?"

Natasha sighed. There might come a day where no one asked her that, but it was evidently not today. "Yeah. I'm fine. I just want to do this, you know? Get it over with. Make those bastards pay."

"Natasha," Steve said. "This isn't about revenge."

"I know," she said. "This is about finishing the mission. But if you think I'm not going to enjoy it, you're lying to yourself."

Steve frowned. "I want you to be careful. Nothing reckless." The elevator opened and they stepped on; Natasha pressed the button for the floor with weapons storage.

Steve went on, "I know...it's been hard for you. Losing Clint. But you need to take care of yourself out there."

His concern was written all over his face, and Natasha had to smile, even as it hurt to remember those first days. "I know I wasn't really handling it before." Understatement of the year. "But I think I'm going to be okay now." Not a lie, not anymore. "Don't worry about me, Cap. I'm going to be careful." She paused, then added, "I have a family to come back to. Kids who are expecting aunt Nat to come back to visit very soon."

"Good," Steve said with an authoritative nod.

The rest of the elevator ride was silent, and when the pair arrived in weapons storage, they went their separate ways to gear up.

It didn't take long for the rest of the team to filter down, and soon weapons storage was abuzz with activity, people yelling and running around trying to find the last pieces of their gear. But by 4:59 AM, Natasha, Steve, Tony, Thor, and Bruce were on the jet. At 5:00 AM sharp, Tony took off.

"See, Cap," he said through the comms. "I _can_ start something on time."

Steve, who was sitting next to Natasha in the back, rolled his eyes.

The mood during the flight was subdued. Everyone made sure to keep their strength up, snacking on protein bars and bottled water. Once they were at cruising altitude, Tony put the jet on autopilot and joined the others in the back.

When they were an hour out from their target, everyone began to get antsy. Tony started getting into the Iron Man suit. Thor was swinging Mjolnir absentmindedly. Bruce was rubbing his palms on his knees, looking faintly nauseated. Steve was adjusting all his buckles and holsters, making sure the fit of his suit was just right.

For her part, Natasha found herself pacing, following a path back and forth from the cockpit to the back hatch. Her stomach was twisting in a way that was foreign to her. Usually before a mission she was calm, focused, but right now, she was all nervous energy and anticipation.

She was halfway through her pacing circuit when it hit her, the realization that should have been staring her in the face from the beginning.

This was probably how Clint had felt before every mission.

He would have been worried about his family, about coming home safely. And that's what _she_ was worried about. She was thinking about the 'what ifs' and the 'maybes,' and she was thinking about Laura and the farm and the kids...and a quiet country cemetery with a freshly dug grave.

Natasha had inherited a family and she had to take care of them now. They might not blame her for Clint's death and maybe—probably—it wasn't her fault at all, but she had inherited a family nonetheless. They were hers.

She had something to come home to, now, and that _terrified_ her.

Realizing she was standing awkwardly in the middle of the jet, probably blocking someone's way, Natasha let herself fall into one of the seats.

Bruce looked over at her. "You all right?"

Natasha was getting tired of that question. "Yeah. I am. Just nervous."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "That's not like you. I didn't know you were ever nervous. About anything. Ever."

Natasha gave a short laugh. "Me neither." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she took a leaf from Laura's book, trying on the other woman's optimism and faith.

It was going to be okay, Natasha decided. The mission was going to be a success, and she was going to make it back to the farm to visit as soon as possible.

No problem.

None.

It was going to be okay. She was going to make it back to Laura and the kids.

Natasha forced all other possibilities out of her mind.

Fifteen minutes out, Steve stood up. "Okay, everyone, get ready. We're almost there," he said, using his Official Captain America voice.

Natasha stood, checking her knives and guns one last time. Everything was comfortable, familiar, within reach. This felt right, like home, and she could feel herself relaxing in the familiar role. Black Widow. She could do this. She was in control.

And for the first time in weeks, Natasha felt like herself. She let the calm certainty seep through her, focusing on the task at hand. Her job during the mission was to work with Tony to find and destroy the computer system and then the equipment they were using to make the weapons. The others would be covering them, using every bit of firepower at their disposal.

It was going to be _fun_ , Natasha decided.

She was going to enjoy this.

And then she was going to make it home safely.

No, there was no other possibility.

* * *

The drop went off exactly as planned.

Tony used the new cloaking on the jet to sneak up unannounced. Then Hulk was dropped directly on top of the compound; if nothing else, the last mission had shown them where the entrance was. Hulk had the guards dispatched and the doors ripped off their hinges before anyone could sound any kind of alarm.

He disappeared into the compound, and as soon as he was out of sight, Tony threw the jet into 'hover' mode and grabbed Natasha. Thor grabbed Steve, and all four of them dropped to the ground.

Hulk had efficiently cleared out the front entrance, the remains of HYDRA guards literally splattered across the small foyer. Inside the exterior doors, there was a more sophisticated set of steel doors with a keypad entry. Hulk had dented the doors, but they seemed to be withstanding his assault. Tony looked at the keypad for exactly three seconds before deploying a strategically aimed rocked that opened the doors quite efficiently.

And then they were in.

Natasha looked around, surveying her surroundings. Hulk leapt off ahead, tackling a group of soldiers who were attempting to get into some kind of formation. Looking to her right, Natasha saw a dark, disused staircase and she gestured to Tony. "Come on," she said over the comms; the noise level was too high to hear otherwise. "The best stuff is probably as far down as they could get it."

"Noted," Tony replied. "Cap?"

"Go," Steve said. He turned and threw a quick punch at a guard who'd gotten past Hulk. The man was knocked out cold. "Thor and I will try to keep everyone distracted up here; if we find the manufacturing stuff or the computers, we'll let you know. Radio if you need us." An alarm began to blare, then; finally, someone had managed to trigger it.

It was only a matter of time before the place would be swarmed with soldiers.

"Aye aye," Tony said. "Widow?"

As a response, Natasha headed towards the stairs.

Within 10 seconds, Tony and Natasha ran into a man in a lab coat heading up, frantically speaking into a radio in hurried Russian. Natasha did not hesitate at all, gracefully jumping down half a flight of stairs and delivering a harsh roundhouse kick to the man's face. He crumpled onto the stairs, blood trickling from his forehead.

Natasha whipped out her gun, intending to finish him, but Tony stopped her. "Come on, he's down. Let's get to the servers, then we can take out their manufacturing equipment."

With only a second's hesitation, Natasha re-holstered her gun and resumed heading down the stairs, Tony clanging along behind her.

The Iron Man suit was _not_ made for stairs.

Amazingly, the pair only ran into a handful of HYDRA operatives. It seemed like this staircase wasn't part of the emergency evacuation route, which made sense; it was dark and narrow. A deluge of people in here would only end with someone getting trampled.

When Tony and Natasha met an adversary, Natasha dispatched them with a particular relish. She didn't wait for Tony, and he mostly stood back, letting her maneuver in the narrow confines of the staircase. It was better suited to her style of combat; graceful, efficient, no extraneous movement and no energy wasted. While she fought, he scanned each floor through the concrete walls, looking for signs of activity like heat output or radiation, trying to locate the servers or the weapon manufacturing equipment.

After the fourth HYDRA operative she took out—this one an actual soldier, armed to the teeth—Natasha discovered she was smiling, a tight, ferocious grin.

This _was_ fun.

The next part was even better.

"Okay," Tony said, scanning the room in front of them through the closed door. "Looks like this is what we're looking for. Infrared says there's a fair bit of heat in there, probably the servers."

Natasha nodded and reached for the doorknob.

The door was locked, though, and wouldn't turn in her fingers. She turned to Tony. "Some help?"

"So _now_ you want my help," Tony groused. "Didn't need me at all on the way down here, oh no. That's all I am, just the brute—"

"Open the damn door," Natasha said. "You can complain later."

"Geez," he said. "Someone's grumpy." But without further comment, he reached out and grabbed the knob, ripping the whole thing out of the door. "Ah, hydraulics," Tony said, tossing it aside. "I feels so powerful."

Ignoring him, Natasha watched as the door swung open, almost in slow motion. She stepped forward and slipped through first, guns in her hands, Tony right behind her.

The room did, indeed, contain the servers. But it also contained probably thirty HYDRA soldiers guarding another ten to twenty HYDRA scientists.

And upon their entrance, the soldiers immediately leapt into action, bullets flying as they rushed towards the door.

"Shit," Tony said. "This looks b—"

"Don't you _dare_ say that," Natasha hissed. And then she was in motion.

The next several minutes were a blur. Natasha moved from target to target, using her hands, her feet, her guns and knives, the Widow's Bite. HYDRA soldiers dropped around her like flies in her web. Several times she had to force herself to remember that Clint wasn't there, that he didn't have her back, and she had to change her fighting patterns to adapt to the missing marksman. But she didn't think about it too much, letting her instincts guide her. She was the Widow, and she could do this.

There was no other possibility in her mind.

When she got a second's reprieve from the fighting, she rolled behind one of the servers to catch her breath. It was then that she became aware of Steve's voice in her ear.

"We found the manufacturing stuff," he said. "Hulk took out their machinery, but we're getting hit hard up here. Do you copy? Tony? Natasha?"

"We're getting hit hard down here, too," Natasha heard Tony say. "We found the servers—" he cut off abruptly for a moment, then resumed, "Sorry. We found the servers, but they're guarded."

"Do you need backup?" Steve asked.

"Couldn't hurt," Tony said. "Sub-basement J. But Natasha might have this under control."

She didn't get a chance to hear the rest; a HYDRA scientist stumbled across her hiding place and Natasha felt a sharp pain in her right leg as the woman drove a ballpoint pen into her calf just below the knee.

Natasha lashed out with the injured leg, catching the woman in the collar bone. There was a satisfying _crack_ , and then Natasha was up and moving again, shooting and stabbing her way through the room, the pain in her leg lost somewhere between the adrenaline and her overwhelming desire to _finish this_.

Injured or not, she was going to get through this, survive.

"Natasha," she heard over the comms, some time later. She wasn't sure how long. She was reloading her gun, wedged between a server and the wall. It was hot and uncomfortable, but it provided a moment's worth of safety.

"Natasha," the voice said again. "Nat."

"Kinda busy," she growled, slamming a new magazine into her gun and standing. She poked her head out of her hiding place, surveying the room.

"Nat. The room's clear," the voice said. Steve. It was Steve.

"You sure?" Natasha asked, slowly stepping out, gun up.

"Yeah," Steve said. He appeared around the corner, stepping over the dead bodies lining the hallway between servers. "Tony's ready to blow the servers, we need to get out of here."

Natasha nodded, looking down at the bodies. They traced a bloody path that followed Natasha's movement through the room. Normally, she felt nothing when she killed; it was such an instinctual part of who she was. But this...this was satisfying.

"Extraction plan?" Natasha asked after a moment, looking up.

Steve grinned. "We left Hulk upstairs. It shouldn't be too hard."

Natasha nodded again. "All right. Let's go."

Steve led the way through the server room, and Natasha got a fuller look at the damage. Some of the bodies showed Tony's signature; laser burns, blunt force trauma. But most of them? Most of them were hers. Headshots, cut throats. Electrical burns.

Natasha smiled.

Thor was waiting by the door with Tony, and when he saw Natasha, he nodded. "Well met, Natasha. Tony tells me of your skill and bravery."

"It was _insane_ ," Tony said, looking her up and down. "Remind me _never_ to piss you off." Then, more seriously, "What happened to your leg?"

Natasha noticed, then, that she was limping. And she remembered why. "I was stabbed with a pen."

Steve frowned. "Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine," Natasha said. Then, "Any other injuries?" They were all standing there, all more or less whole, but she wanted to be sure. Needed to hear that none of them were going to be ripped away, that there would be no more holes in their group.

"Tony's hand got smashed pretty bad, but the gauntlet protected him," Steve said. "Couple of broken fingers, we think. One of the HYDRA goons got me with his knife, but it's not bad, probably just a couple of stitches." He cocked his head towards Thor. "He escaped unscathed, as usual."

Natasha let her shoulders drop. "Okay. Good. Let's get out of here. I'll give Hulk his lullaby, you guys cover me. Let's blow this place off the map."

Tony reached his arm out, and a panel on the armor opened. He reached into the compartment and lifted out a small gadget, about the size of a computer mouse. "I'll set this for twenty minutes. Does that seem like enough time? 'Cause it's gonna bring this whole place down."

"Yeah," Natasha said. Then she shrugged. "And if not, we can leave Bruce here. Serves him right for leaving the team."

Thor furrowed his brows. "Surely, you would not..."

"No," Natasha said. "I'm kidding. Probably. Mostly."

And with that, she headed up the stairs.

Blessedly, at some point, someone had killed the alarm so their ascent was quiet except for the repetitive clang of Tony's boots on the stone stairs.

As they approached the ground floor, they could hear the sound of combat, and Steve motioned for them to stop. "Everyone, get ready. We've got hostiles up here."

"I thought we had thoroughly cleared this compound," Thor said. "Hulk is a most efficient combatant."

"Must've missed some," Steve said. "Let's do this."

He ran up the last few stairs and through the open door. Natasha followed close behind, guns at the ready. Thor and Tony followed.

Their preparation was unneeded, though; Hulk was battling a small ragtag group of HYDRA soldiers and it was clear that HYDRA was on the losing side. By the time the rest of the Avengers got close enough to be of use, Hulk was standing on top of the last soldier, crushing the man's chest into pulp.

When Hulk saw the rest of his team, he growled.

"Back off, guys," Natasha said. They obediently stepped back several yards, giving the pair space. When they were gone, Natasha looked at Hulk and reached out to gently stroke his arm and take his hand. "I think it's time to go to sleep, don't you?"

Hulk frowned, but he slowly sat down. Natasha went down with him, still holding his hand. "You're really tired, aren't you? It's okay. It's time for bed."

With a sigh, Hulk closed his eyes. Within a few moments, he had been replaced by the significantly smaller, significantly less green Bruce, lying unconscious on the cold concrete floor.

"Let's get out of here," Tony said, banging over. "I'll get Natasha and Bruce. Thor, you get Steve. And hurry it up, I want to make it back home before dinnertime. I promised Pepper we could go to that new place that opened just down the road from the tower..."

Natasha rolled her eyes, but she headed towards the front of the compound, where cold gray light was filtering in through the doors.

They were done.

It was over.

They'd finished the mission, they'd closed the books, and Natasha felt...

Well. She didn't know how she felt.

Tony and Thor managed to transport everyone back to the jet, and soon, Tony had maneuvered out of the Iron Man suit and was back at the controls.

Together, they all stood at the front of the jet, watching through the windshield as Tony's tiny bomb exploded, caving in the top of the mountain and causing it to cascade down the slope in chunks of mud and rock.

It was gone. Completely destroyed.

When the landslide had settled, Tony set a course back to Manhattan.

Home.

And then, Natasha leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes.

This chapter of her life, she realized, was over. Officially, now. The mission was complete. The last pages of the story were written. Clint was at rest and now, she, too, might be able to find some peace knowing that she'd done what she could to give herself closure, to give Clint's family closure, too.

Was Clint's death avenged? Natasha didn't know. Vengeance hadn't been a part of the mission, as much as she found it satisfying, as much as she had enjoyed destroying the people who had almost destroyed her. It hadn't been about revenge. But it had been personal. Deeply personal. And now...

Now Natasha finally felt free.

Not free from pain. Clint's death still _hurt_ , still cut her like a knife. She felt it now, as she remembered all the missions they'd completed together, remembered their complicated after-mission rituals and patterns. The way they'd lean into each other on the jet, if he wasn't flying, the way they'd goof off in the cockpit if he was.

That was gone, and it ached.

But with the mission completed, .Natasha felt better. There was pain, but it was less, tempered the sense of closure. She could move forward.

Natasha took a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs and stretch the muscles in her chest and back. She was alive, and whole (minus the whole stabbed-in-the-leg thing). She was the Black Widow. An Avenger. A member of team that had survived its loss, had risen from the ashes.

Natasha had survived. She was bruised and damaged, inside and out, dripping blood onto the floor of the jet, but she would heal. She _was_ healing. Slowly. But Laura had said these things take time, and now that the mission was over, Natasha realized she had nothing but time.

Nothing but time, and all she wanted to do was get back to a little farmhouse in America's heartland. Back to her family.

Her _family_.

First, though, she had to go to Manhattan. Dr. Ericson was going to be _thrilled_ to see her again.

Silently, Natasha stood and stretched. Without saying a word to anyone, she moved to the front of the plane and sat down in the copilot's seat, putting a headset on and propping her legs up on the dashboard in front of her.

The position wasn't the most comfortable with her injured leg, but it felt like home anyway.


	7. Epilogue: Down on the Farm

"Guys," Natasha said, standing, trying to get the butterfly barrettes out of her hair, "If we don't go help your mom with dinner, she's going to kill us."

"But we're not _done_ ," Cooper said. "I own Park Place _and_ Boardwalk. I want to put hotels on them."

Natasha gave up on the barrettes. Lila had stuck them in there too well. "You're going to win, Coop. I guarantee it." She paused, then added with a sly smile, "But you probably just want to watch me and Lila slowly go bankrupt, right?"

Cooper stood up and returned the sly smile, looking so much like his father in that moment that Natasha's stomach clenched. "Well, yeah, that's half the fun."

Natasha shook her head. "You're evil. Come on. Your mom's scary when she's angry. Worse than the Hulk, I think."

Lila reached up a hand, and Natasha grabbed it, using the grip to pull the girl to her feet. "Let's go," Lila said, very authoritatively for someone so small. She marched out of the room.

Natasha waited for Cooper, who groaned and complained appropriately, to head out in front of her, and then Natasha followed, forming a small procession to the kitchen.

It had been about six weeks since the mission in the Himalayas, and Natasha had spent a fair amount of that time on the farm with Laura and the kids. She hadn't yet gotten around to hosting them in New York, but it was in the works—probably over Christmas, when the kids didn't have to be in school.

It was a Saturday today, and a damp one at that, and the Natasha had spent a lazy day with the kids, playing board games to stave off the rainy day boredom. Laura had come to play with them occasionally, but she'd also had to do some work, trying to meet a deadline.

She'd been back at work for almost two weeks, and she told Natasha that the hardest part of it wasn't getting used to sitting down and working for eight hours of the day again, it was getting used to the quiet of the house with kids in school.

"Life is so normal now," Laura had said with a sad half smile. "No home improvement projects going on around me. No one breaking the tractor or falling off the roof trying to fix a leak." She'd sighed. "At least Nate keeps me busy. Having a toddler guarantees it's not too quiet."

And at that exact moment, Nathaniel had burst into tears, having managed to bang his head on the corner of the dining room table.

"He takes after Clint," Laura had said, sighing and standing up.

So now Laura was working again, but she still made time for Natasha. With the help of the kids, the two of them had redecorated the one of the guest rooms, officially making it 'Aunt Natasha's room.' And Natasha spent as much time there as she could.

The other Avengers stopped by, too; Steve and Thor were regulars for dinner, and Tony performed regular maintenance around the house, tweaking things here and there until, one day, the whole house was off the grid and running on an arc reactor. "Hey," he'd said. "Natasha said you missed the home improvement projects."

Laura had just laughed, shaking her head.

Tonight, though, it was just Natasha and the kids. She followed the Cooper and Lila into the kitchen, where Laura was stirring a pot and checking a timer.

"Hey, could you grab pork chops out of the oven?" she asked Natasha. "And you two hooligans set the table, please."

Cooper and Lila obeyed, only slightly reluctantly.

Dinner was boisterous. Cooper and Lila were full of energy from being stuck in the house all day and Nathaniel insisted on throwing his peas at Natasha, who, being a paragon of adulthood, threw them back. Laura just sighed and, after several minutes of trying to lecture her children about the importance of vitamins and minerals, gave up and started throwing peas at Natasha, too.

Natasha, of course, cleaned up after dinner and hours later, after the kids had gone to bed, she threw herself down on the couch across from Laura. "This is exhausting. How do you do it every day?"

Laura smiled. "Patience. Coffee. Lots of coffee."

Natasha laughed, sitting up. "Fair enough." She glanced briefly at the television—reruns of NCIS—before she asked her next question. It was a pressing concern she'd had for a long time, and now, finally, she felt like she could address it. "Hey Laura?"

"Yeah?" Laura said, digging around in her chair, trying to find the television remote.

With only a slight hesitation, Natasha asked, "Could we...go to his grave tomorrow?"

Laura looked up at her, and Natasha met her eyes. After a second, Laura said. "Sure. We'll have to bring the kids, though, I don't have a sitter for Sundays."

"That's fine," Natasha said. "If you think it'll be okay."

"I do," Laura said. "Now, help me find the remote so we can watch something _good_."

* * *

The next morning, Natasha and Laura loaded the kids into the car. It was another beautiful day, all sun and blue skies, and even though the temperature was going to creep into the 70s later, the morning was cool and the air held just a hint of autumn, a promise of the colder days to come.

At the cemetery, the five of them slowly crossed the grounds. Though the dandelions had turned into white puffs on tall stems and grass was slowly starting to cover the fresh dirt that covered Clint's grave, the whole place was as quiet and peaceful as Natasha remembered it.

Lila quietly slipped her hand into Natasha's, and Natasha gave it a reassuring squeeze. She wondered if this was the first time the kids had been back here since the funeral, if this was the first time they were seeing this place without the heavy pall of fresh grief clouding their vision. If it was, Natasha hoped that the peace of the place, the quiet, somber warmth, was as soothing to them as it was to her.

Together, the small family stood at the foot of Clint's grave, not speaking, not moving. The small tokens that had been left on Clint's headstone remained untouched, as if neither wind nor rain could possibly disturb the little shrine set forth there.

Slowly, Natasha reached into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a tiny penguin figurine.

Cooper noticed it immediately. "What's that?" he asked, leaning around Lila to see it.

Natasha rubbed her fingers over it, thinking, remembering. Then she smiled. "Your dad and I were on a mission with Steve in Orlando. We were tailing a group of HYDRA operatives who we suspected of plotting an attack at Seaworld. Well, we were checking the place—"

"Seaworld?" Cooper interrupted, clearly skeptical.

"Yeah," Natasha said. "Seaworld. So we were checking Seaworld out. It was almost 2 AM, and who do we run into but HYDRA?" With a grin, Natasha went on, "So we start to fight them, and the three of us are running through Seaworld, being chased by these bad guys, and your dad pulled out his bow and grabbed and arrow."

"And?" Lila asked, intrigued. Laura was already smiling, having heard this story before, but she wasn't ruining it for her kids.

"And it turns out that when he'd loaded his quiver earlier, he'd gotten some of the arrows mixed up," Natasha said. "And instead of a regular arrow, he used one that exploded, and he blew open the penguin habitat." Seeing the concerned look on Lila's face, Natasha hurriedly went on, "None of the penguins were hurt, they were all sleeping in their den, but when the explosion went off, they all came waddling out to see what was happening." Natasha shook her head. "After that, the bad guys ran off, since the explosion triggered the alarm. Your dad, Steve, and I got caught breaking into Seaworld. Since Captain America was with us, they didn't press charges, but the three of us had to round up the penguins, and Tony had to pay for the damages to their enclosure."

Cooper, Lila, and Laura all burst into laughter, and Natasha smiled, thinking about the aftermath of that little incident. Clint had complained the whole time they were wrangling penguins about the fishy smell, about the uncooperative birds, and he'd insisted he hated penguins vehemently from that day forth.

As the laughter subsided, Natasha stepped forward, then kneeled next to the headstone. Slowly, she placed the penguin figurine at the base, next to the butterfly clip. Then she straightened.

"There," she said, stepping back into her place in the group—the family— between Lila and Laura. "That's...that's all I needed to do."

Lila took her hand again, and this time, Natasha was on the receiving end of the reassuring squeeze.

They stood for a few minutes more, listening to the breeze in the grass, the chirping of crickets and the buzzing of bees. This place, Natasha thought, was a refuge, a safe place, and in many ways, it was perfect for Clint's final resting place. He had been Natasha's refuge in a life that had gone so far sideways that she hadn't seen a way to set it right. He had been the safe place she needed.

And now his family would be her safe place, Natasha knew. They had adopted her, first, and now she had adopted them. They would grow together, and learn, and live.

Natasha looked at the headstone, shining so blindingly white in the morning sun. She looked at the small objects laid at its base, mementos of the life that had once been. Then she looked at Laura and the kids, the living reminders that Clint had lived, had been someone, something.

He was gone, and it _hurt_ and it would hurt for a long, long time.

But Natasha was healing. Clint's family was healing.

It was never going to be the same, would never again be what it was. But it would be something. Something new, something different.

And maybe...maybe it would be okay.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading the angst-fest! I had a lot of fun writing this. I don't write much fic these days, but I felt like Natasha deserved the love.**

 **Sorry about killing Clint one chapter in. He's actually one of my favorite characters to write, so I missed him, too.**

 **Please comment, if you're so inclined.**


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